The Realisation of Freedom
by caisha702
Summary: The whole of Panem knows Cashmere from District One died in the Victor's Quarter Quell...but what if she didn't? AU (and the 'fourth book in the trilogy!)
1. Chapter 1

_**For the first time in a long time, I had some time to myself and nothing to do. I kind of started writing again and this is what happened... I can't promise regular updates like before, but I couldn't resist resurrecting my beloved Cashmere (and I ask you to forgive me with the liberties I've taken with both the plot of Catching Fire and basic medical reality!). **_

_**I thought I'd post to see how many of my old friends from my 'Freedom' writing days are still out there, so if you haven't read the original trilogy then this will make little sense. As ever, if it's recognisable from canon then it belongs to Suzanne Collins.**_

_**One last thing before you start - this is the sort of story that gets more cheerful, I promise. But I had to start here for it to work...**_

Chapter One

_Katniss draws her arm back, taking the string of her bow with it, and everything suddenly seems to slow, almost like I__'__m watching on the television and the Capitolian camera crew have slowed the picture to make it more dramatic. I fly across the sand towards Gloss, throwing myself in front of him even as he starts to push me away, but I know even before I get there that I__'__m simply not tall enough._

_The arrow sails over the top of my head and there__'__s a sickening crack as it reaches the target it was always intended for. A massive force slams into my chest and I__'__m thrown backwards, landing awkwardly on top of Gloss, and though I don__'__t truly understand what__'__s just happened, my first thought is that he__'__s not moving. _

_He__'__s not breathing. This can__'__t be happening. I promised myself and everyone I love that I__'__d protect him. He__'__s my brother, he can__'__t die because I won__'__t let him. I won__'__t let the Capitol win. I won__'__t let them take him from me._

_But then I feel the pain, and suddenly I can__'__t see properly. I raise my hands to my chest and when I pull them back they__'__re wet and sticky with what looks like blood. My blood. _

_The sound of the fighting around me is both deafening and seeming to come from miles away at the same time. With the last of my strength, I throw my arm to the side and grab a fistful of Gloss' jumpsuit, and then I hear them: three cannons, one after the other._

_As everything gets slowly more distant and begins to fade away, my last thought is that one of them can't be for me. It can't be, because I'm still alive…_

* * *

I open my eyes to nothing but endless white. My first thought is that I'm not really awake after all, that I really did die in the arena and I just thought I didn't. But if this is what comes after, then all the people who cling to the faith that we go somewhere better when we die are unknowingly delusional. Because it's cold in here and the machinery surrounding me looks more than vaguely sinister. It's the only thing that isn't white.

I force myself to sit up, and abruptly everything hurts. The sheet that covered me falls away and I realise I'm naked underneath it. My instinct is to pull it back up, but before I can, I see the scar on my chest. It's still a lot darker than the one on my stomach I got at the end of my first Games, but it's already fading. It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense.

I stare down at the harsh red line across my pale skin as it gradually triggers memories of what happened. The jungle. The water. The beach. Johanna's axe. It all really happened, and yet I'm still alive. But why? And if the scar has faded this much then how long have I been here?

I somehow know it isn't that long. That frightens me more than I could ever say, because there's only one place in Panem with the technology and science to heal me at all, never mind so completely and so quickly. But I can't think about that for long. I try but everything's fuzzy and I can't think straight.

The pain that consumes my body finally reaches my mind, and I lie back on the sterile-looking white bed. Then it hits me. Then I remember what's important. Katniss' arrow, sailing over my head as I threw myself in front of my brother and wasn't tall enough. I heard it find its target. Gloss is dead. The other half of me really is somewhere I can't follow.

I've never felt so empty, and many hours must pass as I stare blankly at the stark white wall ahead of me as silent tears trail down my face onto the hard pillow. I don't care. Hours could turn into all eternity and I wouldn't care.

Gloss is gone, so nothing else matters now. I could be alive or I could be dead, but without Gloss, its all the same to me.

* * *

A hidden door in the wall opens silently, and three men walk into my white prison. The colour theme continues to their clothes, one in a lab coat and the other two in spotless Peacekeeper uniforms. It's then that I truly realise I'm not dead. I'm not that lucky. They fired my cannon but kept me alive. But why?

"Someone wants a word with you, de Montfort," says one of the Peacekeepers. He's young, dark-haired and handsome, making me think of Gloss in a way that numbs my heart all over again.

"If you're going to kill me then do it already. Why didn't you all just leave me to die in the arena? I wish with all my heart that you had."

My voice sounds dry and scratchy, and I lose it totally when I see the woman behind the Peacekeepers. Prisca Oakhurst. Head of Snow's Secret Service, Defence Force and general torturer of anyone who gets on the wrong side of the president. I shiver again, but this time I know it's not because of the cold.

It's not that I fear for myself because they can't truly hurt me now, not when Gloss is dead and Falco most likely is as well, but that I fear I might say something I shouldn't in a pain-ridden haze. I know too much, about the president, about the rebellion attempt that failed and about the one everyone was hoping would succeed.

Falco always told me I knew too much and I always told him not to be so stupid. I was the stupid one. I was always the stupid one.

"We're not here to hurt you, Cashmere. Surely you must realise how much trouble we've taken to save your life?"

I slowly and shakily rise to my feet, wrapping the sheet around my cold body as I back away from Prisca, not trusting her words for a second. The thud I make as I hit the wall behind me echoes around the room long after I fall still.

"Keeping me alive and not hurting me are two very different things. And I know where I am so I know none of this is being done for selfless reasons. What do you want from me?"

"It has been decided that you're more use to us alive than you are dead."

"You should have thought about that before you threw me back in the arena," I growl, glaring at the Peacekeepers and the man in the lab coat, who are watching me with the same fascination I suspect they'd show a cat that had been cornered on the street by a group of young men who had decided they wanted to stone it to death for sport.

"We live in an ever-changing world, Cashmere. What seems like the right course of action at one time isn't necessarily the correct one to take in the end."

Everything's still hazy, but I'm aware enough to see the way the older Peacekeeper is looking at me. I can see the lust in his eyes and my heart sinks as I immediately think of Snow's original use for me when I won the Games.

But the terror and revulsion I'm expecting doesn't come, and it's then that I realise I don't care anymore. All I can see in my mind is the look on Falco's face as I turned away from him to go to the hovercraft and the Quell arena, Victory screaming as we were led away from District One, Gloss' last moments. Whatever they do to me, it can't be worse than that.

"I want to see my brother."

"But, Cashmere," says Prisca with sickly-sweet false sympathy. "Your brother died in the Quell…such a tragic waste…"

"Where is he?! What have you done with him?! I want to see him!" I reply, becoming increasingly aware of the hysteria in my voice and not caring in the slightest.

Blinded with hatred and grief, I throw myself at Prisca, my hands raised and my fingers curled like claws.

I almost reach her. I get so close I can see a faint scar above her right eye that I've never noticed before. But then I feel a sharp pain in my neck and everything turns black yet again.

* * *

The next time I wake, I'm sitting on a chair rather than a bed. They've dressed me in a paper tunic that's so thin I doubt I'd have felt any more vulnerable if they'd left me naked. My wrists are bound to the arms of the chair and my ankles to the legs. The blindingly bright lights flicker on and off every second and it's still freezing cold in here. I wonder if this is how Gloss felt when he was in his first arena. I hope that wherever he is, it's somewhere better than this.

The sound of someone clearing their throat makes me look up. Prisca sits opposite me, and though her chair looks considerably more comfortable than mine, her back is as poker-straight as ever. Her expression is harsh and unforgiving, as totally unfeeling as it always is. She gives nothing away. She barely looks human.

"This would be so much simpler if you just cooperated," she says, and her smile is cruel rather than comforting. "A lot less time-consuming for me and a lot less painful for you."

All I can think is that Gloss would want me to fight back. If there's a even a tiny chance that he can see me now then I want to make him proud.

"I've survived a Hunger Games, been sold as a sex slave, hit in the chest with an axe and forced to witness the death of a brother I love more than my own life. Are you seriously mad enough to think you can hurt me now?"

"You couldn't begin to imagine…" replies Prisca, her voice trailing off in a way that's every bit as ominous as the glint in her eyes.

But I can imagine, and that's the problem. Over the years, Falco has told me enough about the woman sitting opposite me as casually as if she's in her own house for me to understand the true horror she's capable of. She's right, I'm scared, but I'll be damned if I let it show.

I owe everyone I love that much. I owe Gloss that much. He might not be here with me but I have to be strong for him. And for Falco. Because I don't know for sure that he's gone. Gloss is dead but Falco might be alive out there, mourning my supposed death but still alive, and as long as he's alive then I've got something to fight for. I've got an incentive to keep my silence which will last as long as my hope that he will outlive me and all of this.

Then I know. All of this. The rebellion plot that's been sizzling in the Capitol for longer than I've been alive. Falco. That's what this is all about. That's why they didn't leave me to die on the sandy ground of the arena. Snow, via Prisca and her cronies, wants to use me because he's always suspected Falco of being involved in planning a revolution and he thinks I know something too. Either that or he just wants to blackmail Falco into telling everything he knows in exchange for my life.

Well, I won't let him do it. I won't say a word and I won't let Falco either. I'll kill myself first. If I find a way to kill myself then Snow won't have leverage over Falco. So that's what I have to do. I have to finish what the Capitol started.

I take a deep breath and look around the room, trying to be as subtle as I can so they don't know what I'm thinking. The totally white box is completely empty other than for the Peacekeeper standing against the back wall behind my chair. But if I can just get my hands free then once Prisca's gone, I can…

I can do what? Cover my mouth, hold my nose and simply stop breathing? I don't think I could do that even if they weren't watching me all the time and wouldn't have plenty of time to intervene. Perhaps I could convince one of the guards to kill me? I could make one of them lose their temper, just like Achillea did years ago when she was looking for her own death. Yes, I could make that work. I'm not afraid to die, not when the alternative is as bad as it is.

"There's no way out of here," taunts Prisca, interpreting my scanning of the room as thoughts of escape. "And I know you're scared, Cashmere de Montfort. I can smell fear. I can sense it. And you're scared, you're so scared that you'll tell me anything. Isn't that right? Well how about starting by telling me where Hazelwell and the others are running the rebellion from?"

My scar might be healing at a frightening rate that can only have been artificially enhanced, but for some reason my chest still hurts. Or maybe it's my heart, aching for everything I've lost. But that's just ridiculous and far too sentimental for a situation like this. Weakness and ridiculousness like that won't get me out of here. Only fighting back like I should and like Gloss would want me to can do that.

"Rebellion? What rebellion? I think someone's feeling a little insecure, don't you?" I reply, my tone every bit as mocking as my interrogator's was. "Surely no one would dare presume to question the almighty Capitol?"

She nods almost imperceptibly and the Peacekeeper smacks the back of my head so hard the tiny room starts to spin. My chin lolls forwards onto my chest and it takes all the self control I have to keep myself from being sick.

"The rebellion, Cashmere," persists Prisca. "Just tell me, and this will all end."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I whisper when stillness is finally restored. "There is no rebellion. If there was a rebellion amongst the Victors then you'd have found out about it when you brought us all to the Capitol for the Quarter Quell. And how would I possibly know about any other plot? I only leave District One when I'm summoned by Snow…I mean the president."

"Hazelwell. You know through him and everyone else he associates with. You're in it up to your neck so don't play innocent with me, it won't wash."

"A bit like you then," I retort, giving her my best District One sneer as I do my very best to channel Satin and the girl I used to be. "That uniform looks like you've been wearing it since the Dark Days."

She doesn't move and simply laughs her low, cackling laugh, but the Peacekeeper's fist connects with the side of my head once again.

The last thing I hear as I black out is Prisca hissing angrily at the man behind me, reminding him that I can't answer her questions if I'm unconscious.

* * *

They keep me in that same white cell for what feels like a lifetime, although I think I could still count the time that's passed in days rather than months. I can't even begin to guess by looking at my still-healing scar. I know enough about Capitolian medicine and technology to know that if they really wanted to save me, as they obviously did, then it could only have been a matter of days since I was in the arena with Johanna Mason's axe embedded in my chest.

I'm not allowed to sleep for long. I've got used to the glaring, flashing lights, but the sirens they seem to sound every hour always wake me every time I drift off.

The sleep deprivation bothers me less than it should. I don't want to sleep anyway because all I can think of is Gloss, lying on a glass table in some Capitolian laboratory somewhere. I know enough about these people to know they won't send him back to Satin so she can give him the decent burial he deserves.

But I can't think of Satin. If I do then I'll make myself weak. I'll allow thoughts of the one thing they might use to break me to enter my head and then Prisca will know. I don't know how, but she'll know. She always does.

They're always watching me. Just because I can't see them through the glass wall, I know that doesn't mean they can't see me. But the only time anyone comes in is when the Peacekeepers arrive to tie me to the chair so my interrogation can begin again. I can't help wondering what it is that's convinced them I know so much. I wish I knew why they're wasting their time on one insignificant district girl like me.

"Good morning, Cashmere," says Prisca mildly as she enters the room, and her tone of voice is enough to fill me with dread because I know she's getting annoyed that she can't get anything out of me and that it's only a matter of time before the real pain begins.

"Is it?"

"Perhaps not for you, agreed, but it is for me. It looks like the Quarter Quell might come to a satisfactory end after all."

"Who's the chosen Victor then?"

"That depends on those left, of course."

"Don't bother with that trash," I snarl back, finding that aggression is an even better mask for fear than I could have imagined. "You and yours chose the Victor at the same time as you chose the competitors and we both know it. Is it Brutus? I guess he'd cause you the least amount of trouble. Or maybe Enobaria? She's a risk but a very useful one, don't you think?"

My interrogator loses her cool for the first time then, and she slaps me so hard that the chair I'm sitting on tips over. The already abused side of my head connects with the cold floor of the cell, and for a moment I forget everything but the taste of blood in my mouth and the loud crash of the table that was between us as it flies into the wall. Then reality abruptly returns and one of Prisca's lackeys sets the chair upright again with me still in it, my wrists and ankles still tightly bound.

To my surprise, she kneels down on the floor in front of me, and for a while she just stares in silence. She knows this is worse for me than if she was hitting me again. It's the waiting and expecting pain which is worse than the pain itself. And she's been there often enough to know that. As Phoebe, Falco's friend and fellow government minister used to say, nobody does torture like Prisca Oakhurst.

"That's a pretty tattoo, Cashmere," she whispers, tracing the outline of the tiny gold butterfly on the inside of my wrist with the point of a bright silver dagger I didn't see her reach for. "A lot subtler than I'm used to seeing these days."

"What can I say other than that the style genes skipped the Capitol and went straight to District One? It's not your fault, you couldn't help it, I'm sure."

Prisca doesn't reply for several seconds, staring at me with her cold eyes. Then she begins to slowly shake her head.

"Perhaps you'd like a matching one on the other side," she says eventually, pushing the edge of the dagger into the delicate skin of my wrist.

She smiles triumphantly when I can't stop my breath from catching, as if she's waiting for me to start screaming and begging for mercy. But I won't do it. I won't ever do it. Before I went in to the Quarter Quell arena, I was worried I'd get hurt and Victory would see me crying out in pain, but that was then and this is now. Now I'm determined that I'll never let this bitch break me or get a single piece of useful information from me.

"All you have to do is tell me what you know and this will all stop," she breathes, her eyes glinting in the spotlight in a way that tells me she's enjoying this way more than she should as she pushes the blade a little deeper.

"Never. You might as well just kill me because I'll die before I betray him," I tell her, only realising when it's too late that she'll take my words as a confession, as my admitting there's something to betray.

"Give me the names of the traitors, Cashmere. Just one name and I'll leave you to sleep. Who are the rebels? What did Hazelwell tell you?"

She carries on relentlessly, until I can't see the pale skin of my forearm through the scarlet red of my blood as she cuts my skin time and time again, her barked questions never ceasing. I bite my lip so I stay silent, just like I did all those years ago when Cornelius Winterborne bought me from Snow and I did what I had to do to save Gloss' life. That only infuriates her more, but the longer I stare at her and the angrier she gets, the more she gives away and the more I can read from her expression. There's more to this than I first thought. I might be the tortured prisoner the whole of Panem thinks they saw die, but I'm not the only one under pressure.

"You don't know where Falco is, do you?" I ask, guessing wildly and then laughing through the pain when I see the fleeting uncertainty that appears on her face and vanishes a split second later. "He left the Control Room before you could kill him and now you've lost him!"

My head hits the floor and the world fades before I can react.

When I wake, I remember what I saw and I take her reaction as confirmation. At least I've really got something to fight for and focus on now. At least I know my silence isn't for nothing.

* * *

I knew something had changed when they came for me and dragged me off the floor and out of my cage instead of tying me to the bloodstained chair I refuse to sit on by choice. I hadn't the strength to either resist or even to support my own weight, so in the end one of the Peacekeepers carried me, throwing me over his shoulder like I was a sack of clothes.

They take me down yet another floor, even further into the depths of the basement. Or at least I assume it's the basement, because there are no windows. I still have no idea where I am, if I'm even in the Capitol.

The corridors of this floor are darker, filthy and damp like my first arena, and it takes the shock of seeing a person not in Peacekeeper uniform who looks in a state as bad as me to pause my impending panic attack. The Quell must be over, for I quickly realise that the person is Johanna Mason. We're flung into dark and dirty cells next door to each other, and though the glass panels slide across the front of them so we can't escape, I can still hear her shouting abuse at her captors. Then the loud and vulgar young woman's brain catches up with her eyes and she realises who she just saw.

"De Montfort, you're dead. I killed you ! You're dead!" she yells, the volume of her voice escalating with every word. "Why aren't you dead?"

I remain silent because I know refusing to respond will drive her as crazy as it did Prisca. And make no mistake, I hate her. She intended to kill me when she threw that axe and it was only chance and the intervention of the Capitol that meant I had the misfortune of being saved. The fact I'd have done exactly the same to her if I'd been in her place is something I should think about, I know that. But this situation hardly lends itself to considered and rational thinking, so I let it go and revert back to hatred and silence instead. It's the only thing stopping me from thinking about Gloss.

They bring Peeta Mellark in a few minutes later, and shove him into one of the cells opposite me, in between one containing a red-haired Capitolian man I don't recognise and another which has the glass windows covered or blacked out so I can't see inside.

"Why are you alive, de Montfort?" yells Johanna again, and I keep ignoring her as I try to think.

As I thought when I first saw Mason, if she and Mellark are here then the chances are that something happened during the Quell to upset the outcome the Capitol wanted. Something must have happened, because they both look beaten up but neither have injuries even the gullible Capitolian audience would believe fatal. But what?

* * *

They leave us alone at first, and I'm surprised by how desperate I am to know what happened. I didn't think I was capable of caring anymore, but the thought Falco might still be alive out there is competing with my grief for Gloss and forcing me to keep going. However that doesn't mean I'm willing to admit weakness to Johanna Mason by asking her for an explanation. Rather than do that, I sit down on the disgusting floor, lean back against the glass, and hope they're going to talk to each other.

The red-headed Capitolian stares across at me, but when I attempt to smile and softly ask his name, he shakes his head and covers his mouth with his hand. At first I think he's telling me not to talk, but I eventually realise he's actually telling me that _he _can't talk. Isn't turning him into an Avox enough for the Capitol? What can he possibly have done to make them punish him all over again?

"His name's Darius," whispers Peeta Mellark, and even that sounds loud in the silence.

I turn away and say nothing, not wanting to risk asking even one question because I know it will open the floodgates and one or both of us will end up saying something we shouldn't.

A short time later, they bring in another red-headed Capitolian Avox, a young woman this time, and Mellark shakes his head.

"She was Katniss' servant when she came to the Capitol, nothing more."

"Is the Quell over?" I ask, suddenly unable to stop myself.

"Shouldn't you be dead?" interrupts Johanna before I get an answer.

"I would be if you'd done a better job with that axe. I wish I was," I reply, before turning back to Peeta, staring across at him and willing him to tell me.

"Yes," he says, but once again, Johanna interrupts.

"The bastards left us," she snarls. "They took their precious Mockingjay and left us to die."

"Good," says Peeta. "I'm glad they got out while they could. Katniss is the one who matters."

"Speak for yourself," retorts Johanna. "I'd have died for her, but being tortured in a Capitol dungeon? That's different. I didn't sign up for this."

They carry on bickering, but I stop listening. The Quell's over and at least one person, Katniss Everdeen, has escaped the vicious clutches of President Snow. But how? Who got her out? Not Falco. I refuse to believe he had the ability to take someone from the arena and chose her over me. He wouldn't do that, not even for the sake of his beloved revolution. So who? Heavensbee? He was the leader of the Capitolian rebellion plot, but I don't see where he would have taken her to. None of the districts are out of reach of the president's forces and he can't possibly have kept her here in the Capitol. None of it makes sense. Unless what Narissa half told me all those years ago about District Thirteen is really true… But it can't be. It's impossible. Isn't it?

* * *

The weeks that follow are some of the worst of my life. Every minute of every day is filled with dread and fear, with the death of Darius and the other Avox, with Johanna's screams as they torture her in the middle of the room where we can all see, and Peeta's anguished cries when his nightmares strike. They take him out once, and when he comes back, his hair is clean and he looks almost presentable. But his eyes are wild, tormented in a way I'd never imagined possible. After that, I find I can't look at him because it hurts too much. He doesn't say another sane or rational word.

Many times I wake to my own screams as well. Prisca poured boiling sugared water onto my bare skin once, right over the scar left by Dahlia's knife, and though the pain has barely lessened since, the physical torture is nothing compared to the mental, for me at least. They show me images of Gloss' death constantly, and I know the injections the Peacekeepers give me contain tracker jacker venom because I've never known horrors that can compare to the images I see when I close my eyes.

I mark the days by placing dots of my own blood on the wall in the corner of my cell, judging time by the appearance of new guards to replace the old. It isn't too hard because my finger nails are bitten so deep that they bleed almost constantly. I do it in my sleep, or when the venom takes hold. I can't stop myself. And the pain reminds me I'm alive so I'm not sure I want to.

There was one time when I woke up facing the glass front of my cage and I was sure I saw Gloss, lying on the floor in the cell opposite. Then I blinked and the glass was totally opaque again, making me think I imagined the whole thing, that for once my mind was seeing what it wanted to.

I remember that moment all the time, because the sight of my brother is the only pleasant thought I can summon, and even if it is in my imagination and I'm finally losing my mind, I don't care. I lie back down, and it's then that I hear his voice.

"Don't give up," he says. "You're not allowed to give up on me, sister. I won't let you."

I turn over again and he's sitting in the cell with me, watching me and smiling that genuine smile I often suspected only I saw. Only he's not there. He can't be. I know he can't be because he's dead. I'm hallucinating. I have to be.

I blink and he's gone.

I turn over and wipe my face. The back of my filthy hand is wet with tears.

* * *

When I wake up he's there again, only this time he's telling me it's time to move. Before I have chance to sit up and tell myself he's not really there, I'm startled by a loud bang.

The main door the Peacekeepers always come in and out by flies open, only the people who storm into the room aren't Capitolian. They're all wearing grey uniforms I've never seen the like of before.

I stare at them even though their focus seems to be entirely on Peeta and I doubt they've even noticed I'm here.

I wish for a quick death because I know it's the only escape I can hope for. Then the nearest soldier turns towards me. His fierce, dark-eyed gaze shows no mercy, but instead of feeling afraid, all I can think is that I'm sure I've seen him somewhere before.

"That's not Enobaria Moreno," he growls, slapping the arm of his nearest companion to draw his attention to me.

He's got a District Twelve accent.


	2. Chapter 2

**_I don't know what to say other than I'm shocked by the response I got to the first chapter. In a good way, of course. Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed, especially the 'guests' I couldn't reply to personally. I read all of your comments and they all made me smile._**

**_So here's the next one, complete with a plot twist that some of you guessed. When I'm writing an AU, sometimes I just can't resist..._**

Chapter Two

"I said that isn't Enobaria," says the grey-uniformed man from District Twelve, repeating himself impatiently to his companion. They both glance nervously at the door like they think every Peacekeeper in the Capitol is about to storm in and attack them.

He walks closer, until his face is almost against the glass of my cell, and I gaze up at him from the floor because I haven't had the strength or the will to stand for at least a week. I recognise him when he speaks again. It's that man who was on all of the television programmes during the Games last year. He's the man the Capitol called the Girl on Fire's cousin even though it definitely didn't take a genius to work out that he was nothing of the sort. But what's he doing here? Who are these people? Where do they come from?

"Cashmere de Montfort died in the Quell," says the man I don't recognise, clearly responding to something the other one said that I didn't really hear because I was too intent on remembering where I'd seen his face before. "It must be some kind of trick. But she looks so much like her. Maybe they cloned her."

"My name _is _Cashmere de Montfort," I tell them as firmly as I can, struggling to raise my head and sit up because it makes my voice sound a bit clearer. "Johanna Mason's axe hit me and the whole of Panem thought I died. But I didn't. They saved me because they thought I had information they wanted. I'm not a clone."

The man from Twelve stares at me for as long as it takes his fellow soldiers to get the shell that used to be Johanna out of the cell next to me and through the door, and then he turns away contemptuously.

"Capitol's whore, she deserves what she gets. Leave her there," he growls. "Let's go."

He starts to walk away and I sag back onto the floor, entirely unable to even support my own weight. Not even the insults touch me. All I can think is that they're going to leave me here. They're not even going to grant me the mercy of a quick death. They're going to leave me here and the torture's going to begin all over again.

"Please," I manage, trailing off as I try to find the words to tell them to just kill me. The other man's indecisiveness only increases at that, and he doesn't seem to know whether to follow the rest of them or not.

"But she's a Victor," he says, and for some reason his words call District Twelve back in a way I didn't expect. "The Mockingjay Convention states they all have immunity. If anyone at Command finds out we left her here alive then there'll be trouble. And maybe she does know something. Isn't it better not to let the enemy have her?"

Then another man, older and in a uniform that's a slightly darker shade of grey, reappears in the doorway.

"You might as well ring the alarm yourselves if you stay here any longer. Soldiers, move out! Now!"

He strides across the room and slams his hand against the glass of my cell. When he withdraws it, I get a brief glimpse of a tiny shard of metal that wasn't there previously before the whole thing shatters into a million pieces. Glass cascades down onto me like rain and I quickly look down, covering my eyes with my good arm.

"Bring her!"

I try to shrink away, now not totally convinced that going with these people won't be simply transferring myself from the hands of one group of torturers to another. After all, you could count the number of people in District Twelve who don't loathe and detest me on one hand and still have fingers to spare. However I'm so weak that I'm powerless to stop the man who approaches me from lifting me up and carrying me towards the door.

"Silence," he hisses when I start to protest. "We're on borrowed time already."

"Where are we going?"

"Out of here. That's all you need to know."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Said like you have so many other options," snaps the sarcastic voice of District Twelve from a few short feet away.

I say nothing, mostly because the wave of pain and nausea that passes through me over and over again as I'm jolted along takes away any words I might have been able to find, but when we reach the cell with the obscured glass, I use every last fibre of strength I have to pull the soldier's jacket collar.

"There's someone in there," I whisper, hating how Prisca Oakhurst has reduced me to being weak enough to have to beg and plead. "Please. Nobody deserves to die in here. Please."

Beyond us in the corridor outside, another one of the strange soldiers guides a bewildered looking young woman along. She's wrapped in nothing but a sheet, and her mass of curly brown hair seems to be caught in the back of it. She half turns, trying to free it, and I catch a brief glimpse of her face. Annie Cresta. Finnick Odair's girl. I didn't even know she was here. She wasn't in the Quell arena because old Mags volunteered and died for her, but from the look of her, she's been a prisoner about as long as the rest of us.

Then Annie disappears from view and I find myself leaning against the wall for support as the soldier puts me down and turns his attention to the dark screen ahead of him. He ignores the warning hiss sent his way as his superior returns to see what's taking so long, and pushes another of the mechanical devices I'd seen destroy the front of my own cage against the glass panel.

Smoke starts to billow down the corridor and I can hear raised Capitolian voices and gunshots. But as the glass disintegrates, I forget it all.

Lying on what looks like an operating table in the middle of the cell is the figure of the one person in Panem who I know better than I know myself.

"Gloss!"

I throw myself forwards, stumbling but ignoring the pain that shoots up my burnt side and radiates from my head without a thought. It properly registers that he's unconscious when I collapse against him and he doesn't move. The shouting gets louder and a bullet whizzes over my head to embed itself into the wall behind me. I throw myself over my brother like a shield.

"Just leave them!" yells District Twelve, making me vaguely wonder what I ever did to make him hate me so much.

"We have to go!"

"Bring them both!"

I recognise the final voice as that of the commander, and his footsteps are the last thing I hear before I feel a sharp stabbing pain in my neck and I know no more.

* * *

My first thought when I start to regain consciousness and am halfway between awake and oblivion is that I'm fed up of people taking my choices away from me by knocking me out. But that lasts for just a split second, which is all the time it takes for me to remember the only thing that matters: that my brother isn't dead.

I open my eyes in a flash, and to start with all I can see are white walls and yet another paper gown. Perhaps I dreamt it all. Maybe I wanted so much for Gloss to be alive that for a second he was, but only inside my own mind. The grey-uniformed soldiers weren't real either. I'm still in the Capitol or wherever I was before. I'm still at the mercy of Prisca, waiting for the next pan of boiling water or finely sharpened dagger.

But then I notice the door. It's slightly rusty, with a black handle that's so ancient I'm sure it wouldn't have been given room in the big city, not even in the depths of the darkest dungeon. Wherever I am, it's not where I was before.

And if that's different then maybe it all really happened. Maybe I wasn't dreaming after all.

* * *

I push myself up a few seconds later, persisting until I'm sitting up on the bed despite my splitting headache. I have to find Gloss. I have to know if he's alive or dead. I have to know if what I saw was real.

"Gloss," I whisper, my voice cracking through disuse.

I wobble when I try to stand, and in the end I have to crawl across the cold stone floor to the door because I haven't got the strength to walk. Someone's treated the burn on my side. There's a bandage wrapped tightly around my waist, and though it restricts my movement, it gives me hope as well. It makes me think there's a small chance that whoever holds me now isn't with Snow and Prisca, because I know Prisca would have waited for the burn to get infected before treating it just so she could watch me suffer the pain.

But then my feeble attempt at optimism vanishes without a trace when I grasp the door handle and it doesn't turn. I'm still locked in. I'm still as much a prisoner as I was before.

"Gloss!" I scream, hammering on the door as many times as I can before I involuntarily collapse against it with my now bleeding hands clutched to my chest. "Gloss!"

* * *

I don't know how many hours pass as I lie there, slumped by the door as I attempt to fight my exhaustion enough to be able to shout my brother's name just in case he can hear me. There were no windows in my previous prison and there are none in this one either, so I have no idea what time it is.

"Back away from the door!" shouts a harsh voice from outside, speaking with a strange accent I've only heard once before.

As that was when the grey-uniformed soldiers raided Prisca's dungeon, I try to make myself think what I should do if what I thought was my dream is actually reality. All my mind screams is that I should fight and die instead of living only to be tortured all over again.

"Or what?" I growl back, but my throat's sore from shouting so much so my words are little more than a whisper and the person gives no sign they heard me.

The door slides open, swinging inwards in an unsophisticated way that's completely unlike the Capitolian ones, and I'm pushed along the floor. In the end I struggle to my feet and across to the bed, putting the only piece of furniture in the room between myself and my captors. I don't know why I bother really. I guess it's just instinct. Old habits die hard in a person who's been in two Hunger Games arenas and endured seemingly endless weeks of pain.

"You're supposed to be dead," says the woman who follows at least four uniformed and heavily armed guards into my cell. "How many more of you are alive? Where's Enobaria Moreno?"

I stare back at her in silence and her frown deepens into a fiercely intense scowl. I'd say she's about fifty, with cold grey eyes and hair the colour of steel which is so straight and even that it almost could be made of metal. I imagine Gloss teasingly suggesting it's not her hair at all and that she's actually just standing underneath it. Then I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

In the end I think I end up with a combination of the two that makes the woman look at me like I'm more than slightly mad.

"Well?" she asks impatiently, narrowing her eyes even further.

Some of her guard companions shuffle around and take small steps away from her, almost in fear. I can't see why as she doesn't seem that terrifying. Intense and serious and obviously in authority, yes, but frightening? Definitely not. Although having said that, the part of me that's still sane realises those are the thoughts of the woman who's sat across a desk from President Snow and fought the likes of Dahlia in the arena. Maybe she _is _scary to people who haven't lived my life.

"Well what?" I reply flatly.

"Answer my question."

"Not until you tell me who you are, where I am, and above anything else, where my brother is."

I look towards the open cell door and two of the grey uniforms step in front of it almost instantly. I laugh to myself incredulously at the thought that they imagine me to be capable of running away anywhere when I'm in this state.

"You're not in a position to make demands," the woman in charge snaps.

"What's the Mockingjay Convention?" I ask, repeating the currently meaningless words that are virtually the only specific and potentially significant thing I remember from fleeing Prisca's dungeon.

The woman scowls again, like she's tasted something unpleasant.

"The only thing keeping you alive."

I open my mouth to ask another question, determined not to be intimidated and to at least go down with my head held high like I promised Ursala I would, but another figure appears in the doorway before I can. A young woman approaches my new interrogator cautiously.

"The Capitolians are looking for you, President," she says. "They were saying something about how you agreed to stay away from the Victors."

"This is my district, not theirs," is the snarled retort. "Let's go."

Then she turns on her heel and leaves without so much as a backward glance. President? And she said 'district'. And 'Capitolians' in a way that sounded like she didn't mean Snow.

Suddenly I'm more confused than ever and my head hurts so much I can't see straight. I'm not sure I can even begin to work out what's happening here, so instead I spend my time leaning against the wall, shivering, thinking of Gloss and Falco and waiting for the torture that never seems to start.

* * *

When I wake I think I'm still dreaming. Surely I must be dreaming when Plutarch Heavensbee's there looking down at me, his belly almost as expansive as ever but his eyes more tired than I've ever seen them.

"I think you're going to have to start at the beginning of this story, Miss de Montfort," he says, not unkindly.

"What's happening here? Where's my brother? And don't call me 'Miss de Montfort'."

I shudder because that's how Snow used to address me. Then I slowly and deliberately turn my back on him.

"I've got nothing to say to you, traitor."

"I'm not a traitor, Cashmere. I saved your life. Although I can't claim to have known that was still possible."

"Where am I?"

"District Thirteen?"

"What?!"

"It's a long story, but for our allies to be satisfied you're on the right side, I'm going to have to hear yours first."

"You mean that woman and her lackeys?" He nods. I shrug my shoulders and then wince in pain. "You won't get another word out of me until you tell me where Gloss is and what happened to Falco."

"Cashmere-"

"Is my brother alive, Mr Heavensbee?"

"Yes."

My eyes close of their own accord as I try to hold back the tears that come from nowhere. I don't want the former Head Gamemaker to see me cry, but I can't help it. I can't stop myself.

"And Falco?"

"Cashmere-"

"Don't 'Cashmere' me," I snap, through with even attempting to be polite and controlled. "Tell me. And take me to Gloss. Right now."

"When we ended the Quell and got Katniss out of the arena, our cover was obviously blown. But Falco had already left. He disappeared as soon as…as soon as you fell. Snow confirmed him as a traitor and has him on a list of so-called enemy casualties, but I never saw him either alive or dead after that day in the Control Room."

"Prisca Oakhurst hasn't got him. She doesn't know where he is."

"How do you know?"

"Where's Gloss?" I counter, refusing to give another inch.

Heavensbee sighs deeply and gestures to the door behind him.

"How do you expect me to trust you when you keep me captive?" I hiss as I walk past him, determined not to appear as unsteady as I feel. "How do you expect me to believe Falco was right to trust you?"

"It's complicated," he replies evasively.

"The basics aren't."

He turns to look at me sharply as we walk down a narrow corridor that looks just like There. I ignore him, staring straight ahead and forcing myself to keep going.

We go past several doors that are identical to the one I was held behind, but he doesn't stop until we reach one that has a kind of observation window built into the wall. It's spotlessly clean like everywhere seems to be here, but also like everywhere here, it appears old and dated, like it's from another time.

But then Heavensbee flicks a switch and a light comes on. I can see through the window. I can see Gloss, lying on a hospital bed in the middle of the room, covered in a white sheet. He's not moving.

"You said he was alive!" I scream, slamming my already injured hands against the window and leaving a trail of blood behind when I pull them away. "You said… Gloss!"

"Cashmere," he answers, raising one hand placatingly without daring to touch me while he frantically taps on a panel mounted on the door frame with the other. "He's alive but he's unconscious. He has been since before he left the Capitol."

The door clicks open and I fly into the room and over to the bed, putting my hands over my brother's heart to feel the shallow rise and fall of his chest and reassure myself he's breathing. I initially sit down but then quickly lie down beside him, tucking my head under his chin like I always used to. For the first time ever, his arms don't lift up and wrap around me.

"Wake up, Gloss. Please."

"He will," says Heavensbee quietly. "They've been giving him a strong sedative to keep him out of it while he heals. It takes many hours to wear off even when it's no longer being administered."

I sit up again and press the palm of my hand against the side of Gloss' face. He has a bandage around his head, and it takes several seconds for me to register that it covers one of his eyes.

"A millimetre either way and he'd have been killed outright. Or that's what the medics here say. They also say that if he'd had that sort of injury here then he'd certainly have died. But he had the best treatment available where he was."

"Why?" I whisper, shifting on the bed so I can look up at Heavensbee without letting Gloss go for a split second.

"Are you sure you want or need me to answer that question?"

"I…I don't…I don't underst- Oh."

I shiver even though it's not cold in here.

"Yes. I reckon you told Prisca nothing, that she cut you and scalded you and subjected you to all kinds of mental torture I can't truly begin to imagine or understand, and that you still didn't say a word."

I nod to acknowledge that he's right, feeling strangely proud of myself despite the situation.

"Nobody's seen Falco's body," I tell him fiercely, almost as if I'm telling my torturer rather than the man who claims to have saved me. "And besides that, I believe I'd know if he was dead anyway. I'll never betray him."

"I believe you. But if you knew she had Gloss alive then you'd have told her anything. You'd have sworn on your life and that of everyone else you've ever met that black was white before she even had to touch him."

"But why do it?" I ask, not seeing the point in denying it when we both know it's true. "What could she want from me that could possibly be valuable enough for them to go to the effort of bringing us back from the brink of death and keeping us both alive?"

"I was hoping you'd be able to tell me that," he replies, shaking his head sadly when he realises I'm as in the dark as he is.

"Snow knew about me and Falco," I say eventually, talking to Heavensbee but looking only at Gloss. "He'd always known. One of the reasons he came up with the Quell was to punish us for defying him. It's got to have been about that. He must have thought I knew more than I did. Or else he just wanted to use me to get to Falco."

"There's more to it than that. As you said, they went to a lot of effort to keep you alive."

"But isn't it all about Everdeen now though? Isn't she the figurehead of the new revolution?" I ask sarcastically, repeating the phrase I heard from Beetee before the Quell.

"She could be," he replies cryptically, but I barely hear him.

Remembering what District Three's first Victor said makes me wonder what happened to him, to all of them who went into that horrific jungle arena. Then I find myself thinking of those who didn't, of Satin, Felix, Drusilla and even Narissa. Suddenly, now I can feel Gloss' heart beating through my hand that rests on his chest, I want answers. The only problem is that I don't know where to start.

"What happened? How did the Quell end? _When _did the Quell end?"

"With the help of my allies here in Thirteen, I extracted Katniss, Beetee and Finnick from the arena six weeks ago-" he begins, but he pauses when I shudder violently at the thought that I was the Capitol's prisoner for six whole weeks.

"Are they alive? Beetee and Odair, I mean."

"Yes. They're here in Thirteen. As are Peeta, Johanna and Annie Cresta, all of whom we rescued along with you and your brother."

"So that's what Mellark and Mason were arguing about when the Peacekeepers locked us up. You got your precious Mockingjay out and left most of the rest of them for dead. You got the poster boy and the technological genius out because they'll be the most useful to you, didn't you?"

"Useful in our attempt to overthrow Snow's government, Cashmere," he says sharply, with an edge to his voice that wasn't there before which tells me it's definitely possible for me to push him too far. "I was always under the impression we were on the same side."

"That was before you sent Gloss back into the arena to his death."

"He's not dead."

"You didn't know that. You didn't care either way."

"This isn't about you and your brother, Cashmere. This is about the future of this war and the future of all of Panem. It's bigger than any of us."

"And yet you're not in the firing line," I retort, but there's no real venom in my voice because I have to concede he has a point even if I don't much like it."

"I have to go. Come this way."

"I'm not leaving Gloss. You'll have to get one of your minions to knock me out because I'm not moving."

"If I leave you here then you'll have to stay. Until Command finalises it's decision about how you fit into the Mockingjay Convention, you're under arrest."

"Lock me up in here if you must. I don't care," I tell him, curling up on the narrow bed beside my brother.

I fight back my curiosity and my questions because I don't want to give him the satisfaction of being able to deny me answers.

* * *

I hit the ground before I wake fully, and for a moment I'm disorientated and can't quite coordinate my limbs well enough to push myself back up. Then I hear Gloss, shouting and screaming in a way he never did when he left his first arena, finally expressing the pain and fear he's kept inside him for more years than I can remember.

He's on his feet already, and I have to duck out of the way as he sends the bed we were both sleeping on flying into the wall behind me like it weighs nothing. He cries out over and over again, wordless wails of confusion that I initially try to block out so I can focus on deciding how to calm him down. But then I hear my own name as he pleads for me to help him, to make the pain stop.

With tears in my eyes and rolling down my cheeks, I step quickly towards him just as the door swings open and slams into the wall.

"Gloss, it's me," I tell him, trying to keep the panic out of my own voice when really all I want to do is join him in his madness. "It's Cashmere. I haven't left you. I won't ever leave you."

Yet more people in white uniforms swarm into the room, all frantically talking at once in a way that makes their voices little more than a low and monotonous buzz. A couple of them have syringes in their hands, and the needles catch the light like diamonds in Satin's workshop. They're all looking straight at Gloss, but none seem willing to make the first move. A lot of them seem almost scared, like they're not used to handling a situation like this.

Now, looking at them, I know that at least part of what Heavensbee told me is true. If we were still in the Capitol then both my brother and I would have been on the floor a long time ago.

"Gloss," I repeat, speaking constantly in the hope he'll recognise my voice and that my words will sink in. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere," I continue, before growling at the white-uniforms as fiercely as I can. "Back off! I'll deal with this."

It's only when I rest my hand on my brother's arm that he truly sees me. His eye that isn't covered by the white bandage stares unblinkingly for several seconds, and I see the exact moment he finally knows me.

"Cashmere? What happened, Cashmere? Where are we?"

He slides down the wall until he's sitting on the floor, and I can see him shaking as the memories come flooding back.

"The beach," he whispers as I sigh with relief when I hear the click of the door behind me as the last of the strangers leaves. "The arena. We were going after Everdeen and Odair. I was going to kill him, Cash, and you were with me. But… I can't remember. I can't remember anything…"

I sit down beside him, pulling his arm until he gives in and lets me hold him while his uncontrollable sobs subside.

"It's all right, little brother. I'll get us out of here. I promise," I say, but even as I speak I realise I haven't got the first idea how to keep that promise.

"I can't see properly," he whispers eventually, sitting up and raising his hand to the bandage on his head. "Why can't I see properly?"

"You…you got…hurt in the Quell, Gloss. You got shot, but the doctors made you better."

"What? Tell me the truth. That doesn't make sense. We were in the same arena, Cash. Why are we both still alive? Why are you so thin? What happened to your arm?"

He reaches out and touches the cloth that covers the arm Prisca cut to shreds. I must have been given some kind of painkillers, because I barely feel it even though I know I would have been in agony before.

"They fired our cannons when we were still alive and took us out of the arena. They healed us because they thought I had information. About the rebellion, I mean."

"Who are _they_? I still don't understand."

"The government, Gloss," I tell him, trying to pull his hand away when he attempts to unfasten his bandage because I'm scared of what I'll see if he takes it off. "President Snow."

He jerks back, but returns his hand to my arm instead of to his head. Then he touches first the swollen wound on my head and then my side.

"Who did this to you, Cash?"

"We were prisoners in the Capitol," I reply eventually. "They were able to heal me very quickly, but she wanted me to answer her questions. I…I didn't want to tell her anything. She didn't like that."

"Who?" he repeats, brushing my filthy hair back from my face and holding my head up so I have to look at him.

"Prisca Oakhurst," I whisper, and though my voice is barely audible, I can tell from his sharp intake of breath that he hears me.

"How long?" he asks.

"The Quell ended about six weeks ago, or so Heavensbee said anyway."

"Heavensbee?" he echoes, putting his arms around me and pulling me close.

"I saw him earlier. He says this is District Thirteen. I don't trust him."

"But he took over the rebellion. Falco said so."

"Then why are we still locked up? Why won't anyone explain anything properly?" I reply, trying not to wince when he mentions Falco because I haven't got anywhere near enough strength or courage to go there yet.

He shakes his head again and unfastens his bandage before I can stop him. He collapses against me when he drops it to the floor at his side, giving me only a brief glimpse of his face. It's long enough for me to know that the Capitolians saved his life but not his eye.

"We're alive, Gloss. That's what matters. And we're going to get out of here."

"And do what? There's hardly a person in Panem who doesn't either think we're dead or want us that way."

"I don't know, Gloss," I reply, surprised to find that his anxiety makes me brave because I know I have to stay strong for him. "But I'll think of something. Nobody's seen Falco's body so I won't believe he's dead. I can't believe he's dead. I have to find him."

"If he's alive then he'll find you, Cash," he says drowsily as he rests his head on my shoulder. "He'll always find you."

* * *

Gloss is asleep when Heavensbee returns. Leaning against me, with an almost peaceful expression on his face and his too-long hair covering the scar where his eye used to be, he could almost be the Gloss from before the Quell, and it's an effort to drag my eyes away from him.

"He's dangerous, Cashmere," says Heavensbee softly. "You know that, don't you? That guard's unconscious in hospital."

I shrug my shoulders, determined to make light of the two further panic attacks my brother's had since the former Head Gamemaker left the room a few hours earlier.

"I told them to let me deal with it. It's not my fault or Gloss' that they're too stupid to listen."

Heavensbee sighs deeply, but says nothing more and clearly decides to let it go. That's when I know he's here for a reason, that something's happened in the time since I saw him last.

"Most of the districts are fighting Capitol control now," he says. "The rebellion is quickly becoming a war."

"Good," I say cautiously, clenching my hands into tight fists almost subconsciously. "And you came here to tell a prisoner like me because…?"

"You're not a prisoner any longer, Cashmere, and technically neither is your brother. Although he will have to prove he's…well enough before he can be allowed to leave here or be left unsupervised."

"On what condition?" I retort immediately.

"Who said there's a condition?" he replies, smiling the smile I remember seeing on countless television interviews he gave as a Gamemaker.

"There's always a condition. For someone like me anyway," I say, not returning the smile even slightly.

"Very well," he answers eventually, a thoughtful look on his face. "It has been decided that as a Victor, you are covered by the Mockingjay Convention even though you were presumed dead at the time it was created and will therefore be granted immunity. However many of our District Thirteen allies are not convinced of your loyalty. The condition of your release is that you allow them to transport you to District One so you can persuade your sister to fight."

"Satin?" I reply confusedly. "Why does she need persuading?"

"Snow's people have told her you and Gloss are alive and that they'll hurt you if she doesn't do as she's told. We've tried telling her we got you out and that you're in no danger but she doesn't believe us. We showed her footage of you both but so did they. The last message that came out of One was sent by your brother-in-law, and he said Satin's willing to open the gates of the district to the rebel army for the invasion if we can prove we're telling the truth about having you and your brother."

"What do you mean 'open the gates'? The Capitol controls the district. Doesn't it?"

"Not anymore. A short time after the end of the Quell, your sister began a fight that threw the Peacekeepers out. She runs the place now."

For the first time since Snow announced the Quell, I truly can't restrain my smile.

* * *

_**Don't forget to tell me you read this far! :)**_


	3. Chapter 3

**_Two chapters in two weeks... I can't promise it'll happen again... But as, being British, I totally forgot it was Thanksgiving last week, I didn't realise that a lot of you probably wouldn't have been on the computer to see last week's - if you didn't then go back a chapter first!_**

**_Thanks to my reviewers, logged-in and guest - your kind words keep me posting..._**

Chapter Three

Once Alma Coin, the so-called President of the underground city of District Thirteen, begrudgingly conceded that it's unlikely I'm a Capitolian spy, I was given a guided tour of the place by a grey-haired but still-formidable man who went only by Soldier Johnson. I never found out his first name when I met him, and by the time I got a few minutes into my tour, I couldn't quite bring myself to ask.

Being underground does nothing for my state of mind because the memories of my first arena continue to linger on even now, but I was surprised to find that this dour, fierce-looking soldier seemed to understand. He distracted me with stories of how he's helping to train recruits for the rebel army known as the Mockingjays as we walked down endless dark corridors, never pausing as if he sensed that silence would only make me worse.

The one which sticks in my mind is that of a woman commander from District Eight who apparently became the first person to answer him back and mean it in about twenty years. He said her name was Flax Paylor, talking of her and her fellow District Eight rebels with something bordering on respect, and I found myself wanting to meet her simply because he likes her. Soldier Johnson is the first person besides Gloss who hasn't looked at me like I'm either a commodity or a dangerous animal since my false cannon was fired.

* * *

If I'm honest then I don't know how the people of Thirteen have existed like this for so long, completely contradicting the Capitolian propaganda and lies we've been fed since the Dark Days. Snow's government and that of the one who came before him had us believe the whole place was blown out of existence and its people destroyed. Now I know the truth, I don't know what to think. All I do know is that it must be unbearable to live virtually your entire life underground and without the light of the sun.

As I followed Soldier Johnson along, pausing at their equivalent of a Community Hall and at the entrance to the passageway that leads to the room known here as Command, but not at the communal dining hall, I got my first real chance to think about what's happened and what might happen in the future. If someone had said it a few months ago I never would have believed it, but what Narissa and Falco told me is true. There is a District Thirteen and it's willing to unite with the rest of us to take on the president.

But at what price? I can't help thinking I can't be the only one who realises nobody ever does anything for nothing, and the idea of getting the real truth from Satin suddenly seems even more appealing. If anyone in Panem's going to be practical and objective then it's my big sister.

"I should get back to my brother now," I tell Soldier Johnson eventually. "We're going home."

He stares back at me, looking very much like he wants to say something but then thinks better of it.

"That Capitolian's waiting for you," he says finally, and although I know that's not his original choice of statement, I decide to let it go.

"How do you know?"

He raises his arm so I can see the cuff around his wrist before continuing. "But I wouldn't trust him if I were you. Not unless what you want and what he wants are the same thing."

"I could say the same about most people in power and virtually every Capitolian. I can look after myself. But thank you anyway," I add, softening my tone even more than I intended to.

Talk of Capitolians makes me think of Falco, and I miss him so much it physically hurts even more than the burn on my side.

* * *

When I push open the door of Gloss' hospital room, he jumps up off the bed and steps back so quickly he crashes into the wall behind him. It's only when he truly sees and recognises me that he begins to relax.

"What do you think of District Thirteen, Cashmere?" asks Heavensbee as I link my arm through Gloss' and lead him back to the bed.

"Do you and Alma Coin seriously think you're going to join forces and take Snow on?"

"I think it's gone so far beyond the point of no return that we have no choice but to try," he replies, making me wish I was more aware of what's going on than I am for about the millionth time.

"So you're sending us back to One as a way of convincing Satin to fight?"

"Your sister doesn't need convincing to fight, Cashmere. She needs to know that the enemy can't hurt you. But you're not staying there. I'll bring you back as soon as it's safe."

"Why?"

He looks at Gloss this time. "Because you can't even think about leaving the room without having a breakdown."

"I can," growls my brother, but I can see the tension in his face and body at the mere thought of going outside these four walls, and I know Heavensbee's right even if I don't want to admit it.

"We'll be together," I say, sitting on the bed next to Gloss. "And we'll be fine if we're together, won't we?"

He looks silently across at me and I can read his expression as well as ever. Most of his mind is willing to follow me to the end of the world, but there's a part of him that simply can't and he knows it.

"Miss de Montfort, a craft will fly you to District One so you can see your sister and, more importantly, she can see you," says another voice from the doorway.

There are two unfamiliar soldiers standing there, their uniforms the dark grey of District Thirteen commanders, and Gloss begins to shake the instant he sees them. I take his hands in mine and glare up at them, narrowing my eyes sharply as if they are the ones to blame for my brother being in the state he is.

"I don't take orders from you," I snap. "Or have you forgotten that I'm not a prisoner anymore because of your beloved Mockingjay Convention?"

"The president wishes to reopen negotiations and restart working with your sister, the Mayoress of District One-"

"I know who my sister is," I growl, but the man ignores me and carries on.

"- and that's not possible until Mayoress de Montfort has proof of life she believes in."

"And what if Satin doesn't want to ally with your president then? If I go home with you, I'm providing you with a legitimate reason to enter District One. I still don't trust your president and if I know Satin at all then my sister doesn't either."

"We're all on the same side, Cashmere," interjects Heavensbee, dismissing the soldiers with the ease of someone used to having virtually limitless authority.

For the first time ever, with that simple gesture, the former Head Gamemaker reminds me of Falco. But I can't think of him and remain sane, so I try to block the thought out.

I almost succeed.

"Let them take you home, Cashmere," tries Heavensbee again quietly, almost as if he knows what I'm thinking even though he couldn't possibly. "Put your sister's mind at ease and help the cause you've believed in for almost as long as I have."

"Do I have your word you'll bring me back here? I won't leave Gloss unless you swear it on your own life. I won't be without him again," I say, watching my brother, who had got up when the soldiers left and is now sitting curled up against the wall with his knees tucked up to his chest like he did when he left his first arena.

"I can't speak for President Coin, but you have my word that if I can't get you back to your brother then I will find a way to get him to you."

"That'll just have to be good enough. When do I leave?"

"Ten minutes ago," he replies, glancing towards the now closed door I'm guessing the soldiers are waiting behind.

"Give me a minute," I tell him, and before he can argue, I turn my back on him and cross the room to kneel in front of Gloss. "I'm going to see Satin. But I'll come back for you, I promise."

"I'm sorry, Cash," he whispers, closing his eye when I reach up and brush his hair out of the way.

The scar where his other eye used to be is vivid in this light, and try as I might, I can't suppress the utter hatred I feel for Katniss Everdeen every time I look at it. What I feel for Johanna Mason has nothing on the bitter loathing I feel for the girl who most of Panem thinks killed my brother.

"Cash," he says again, touching my hand to get my attention.

"You don't have to be sorry, Gloss. Just get better. The sooner you get better, the sooner we can get out of here together."

"When you get home, stay there," he tells me suddenly, so abruptly the pre-Quell Gloss I remember that it's like someone flicked a switch. "Don't let them bring you back. You'll be safer and happier with Satin."

I quickly stand up so I can look down at him. The last thing I say to him before I leave is one word:

"Never."

* * *

It takes over a day to get from District Thirteen to District One, but I didn't see much of either the hovercraft or the rest of Panem passing by beneath us as we travelled.

It took all of ten minutes of being trapped in a cold, grey metal box with a group of strange and hostile-looking soldiers for my mind to go into overdrive, and after that I spent the rest of the journey under sedation. For my own safety, apparently, although when I was briefly allowed to wake and I looked at the number of soldiers with cut lips and bruises, I wasn't entirely convinced that's the only reason.

"Wake up, Miss de Montfort," says a voice at the same time as I feel an unfamiliar hand on my arm.

I jerk back and jump to my feet, on guard instantly. However when I eventually manage to focus, I realise the hand belongs not to an attacker but to a frightened District Thirteen soldier who seems to be little more than a girl.

"I'm sorry," I offer, taking a tentative step forwards. "But most people who know me know better than to touch me when I'm asleep."

"I didn't think," she replies.

Well she wouldn't. She's from Thirteen. She's never had to live with the threat of the Games and of Snow's tyrants. She's never known the kind of madness the Games inflicts upon its survivors. And when I think like that, it doesn't take me long to realise I'm more than a little bit jealous.

"We're about to land," she continues, gesturing towards the nearest window and the green of outer District One beyond.

"We're close," I say. "I thought we'd land further out than this."

"Too much of a risk," answers one of the other, more senior, soldiers. "This close to the Capitol, there are enemy air patrols virtually constantly."

"So it makes sense to fly even closer," I reply sarcastically.

"They're mostly looking for targets on the ground that they can take out without causing too much damage to the best-kept district in Panem."

I sit in silence feeling very stupid after that. The time for the subtleties of planning and espionage are over. If I'm going to work with these people and have any part in this revolution now, I'm going to have to teach myself about military tactics and the practicalities of war. And I know without having to think about it that that's what Falco would want. After all, didn't we always dream of seeing the government fall?

* * *

The car waiting for me when I step out of the ancient District Thirteen hovercraft is black, with tinted windows that prevent me from seeing any part of its interior. It reminds me of the official cars I used to travel in when I was in the Capitol, of Falco's car I used to hide in and never want to leave.

When I get inside and see the Capitol seals all over the fittings and upholstery, my suspicions are instantly confirmed as being even more accurate than I thought. Trust Satin to hijack the enemy cars to make a point.

"Where's my sister?" I ask, leaning away from my District Thirteen escorts who sit on either side of me and towards the obscured glass panel I know separates me from the driver.

"Miss Cashmere? No, it's impossible. It can't be."

The panel sinks down and I find myself face to face with Sil Bannerman, the first foreman in my family's workshop for as long as I can remember who had been arrested for sedition before the Quell.

"I guess the Capitolians decided they couldn't live without me after all," I quip back, attempting to make a joke of my apparent resurrection because the only alternative response to someone so essentially 'home' seems to be floods of tears. Again.

"How? I don't understand, Miss Cashmere. We all saw you and Gloss die. The Boss tore the district apart until she got all of the Capitolians out because of what they did to you. It was your deaths that started the uprising in One."

"They thought I had something they wanted. Information, I mean," I reply, rolling up the sleeve of the ugly grey jumpsuit District Thirteen gave me so he can see the slowly healing remains of my forearm.

"I'll bet that's not the worst of it either," he says with a disgusted look that turns into a suspicious glance at the soldiers accompanying me. "Is… Is… I don't like to ask, but-"

"Is Gloss alive?"

Sil nods.

"Yes. He's…taking a bit longer to get well again. He's still in District Thirteen."

Sil shakes his head in clear disbelief at how a place he thought had been destroyed before he'd been born is now an almost normal part of conversation. I can't say I really blame him though. I can't quite believe it myself and I've been there.

"We should be moving now," interrupts one of my companions, his eyes drifting to his arm out of habit. An expression of shock and disappointment briefly appears on his face when he realises he doesn't have a carefully timed schedule printed there like usual.

"Go on," I say to Sil with what I hope is a reassuring smile. "The Boss is expecting me and you know she doesn't like to be kept waiting."

He nods and the car glides forwards, but he doesn't restore the glass panel to its original position. Every so often I see him look at me through the rear-view mirror like he can't get his head around the fact I'm alive.

I smile again, something that isn't difficult to do when I remember his past kindnesses, but the closer we get to the centre of town, the more nervous I get. Over the recent years, Satin and I have come to get along way better than I ever could have hoped or imagined at the time I left on the tribute train for my first Games nearly a decade ago. But that doesn't mean I know how she's going to react to seeing me now. That doesn't mean I even know how I'm going to react to her.

We reach the main square about five minutes later, and though it appears virtually as I left it at first glance, when I look closely I can see the signs that all is not as it was. Hardly any of the shops are open and there are no people casually wandering from place to place. In fact there are scarcely any people at all, and those I can see are armed and on edge.

"Keep driving," says the same soldier who ordered Sil to move before. "Don't stop."

In the end, Sil takes us right up to my childhood home that now belongs to Satin, going around the back and into the enclosed courtyard.

"I'm guessing Heavensbee and President Coin don't want me doing a victory parade around the district then?" I ask dryly as I open the car door.

"It was felt that it wasn't prudent at this stage," the soldier replies, as formal as ever in a way that makes me wonder if the sense of humour gene has been bred out of District Thirteen entirely.

But then I forget about that as a small figure appears in the doorway, the bright blue eyes she inherited from her father wet with tears. She stares at me in shock for a long time, and I find myself unable to do anything but stare back. Then the spell breaks and she races forwards.

"Aunt Cashmere! Aunt Cashmere! You came back!"

She crashes into me before I can think to brace myself or stop her, and the pain of her thin but surprisingly strong arm wrapping around my injured side is enough to make me involuntarily cry out in pain. She lets go immediately but doesn't back away and instead stares up at me, her face a strange mixture of happiness, confusion and concern.

"Don't worry, Vic," I tell her, holding my arms open for her and ignoring the pain when she hugs me tightly.

"Are you real?" she asks. "Because Daddy said you'd gone to be with Aunt Sapphire and I know I'll never see her."

"Of course I'm real," I reply, kissing the top of her head. "The bad Capitol people lied, that's all. Just like they always do."

"Does that mean Uncle Gloss is coming back too?"

"Yes, but not right now. I'm here to see your mother for a short time and then I'm going back to get him."

"Then will we all be together again?"

For a second I don't know how to answer that, but I do know that lying to her wouldn't be right. And it would be pointless. Satin's daughter is as good at seeing untruths as her mother.

"Maybe," I say. "If we can stop the president and the rest of the bad Capitolians."

"We will," she replies, with the total confidence of a girl too young and too sheltered to know better. "Mother will stop them. Everyone's scared of Mother."

"Everyone but you, it seems, my girl," says a familiar voice. "Because if you were scared of me then you'd have stayed in your room like I told you to."

"Hello Satin," I offer tentatively, watching her as she slowly descends the steps towards me.

Drusilla's style lessons obviously stuck despite the revolution, because though she looks tired and her hair's more than a little dishevelled, her dark purple suit is immaculate and straight out of the more expensive and sophisticated Capitol fashion magazines. It's only when she gets closer that I realise the jacket is open because she can't quite close it over her pregnant belly.

"I always said you're far too stubborn to die just because the president wants you to," she says, her voice shaking as much as her body.

Then, to my great surprise, regal, controlled and chronically reserved Satin throws her arms around me and hugs me every bit as tightly as her daughter did. However she's a whole lot more aware and worldly-wise than little Victory, and she guesses the reason for my whimper immediately.

"That film was real, wasn't it? What did they do to you? Cashmere, what happened?"

"Film? I don't know what you mean."

"Come in," she says, her expression almost kind until she looks past me to the District Thirteen soldiers. "You wait here," she snaps, and to my surprise, they obey.

Maybe Coin's given them orders to treat my sister with respect. Maybe Thirteen's president is clever enough to realise she'll never truly win the support of the district without first winning that of the most popular and loved mayor or mayoress in history. Or maybe my sister simply has that natural air of authority that makes people used to taking orders obey her without question.

At the moment, my best guess is it's a mixture of all of them.

* * *

My father trained my sister well, and when I look at her, I can never tell much about what she's really thinking. However I know instantly that she's worried about me because as soon as we get inside the house, she guides me down the corridor towards her study.

"Am I seriously worthy of admittance to The Study?" I ask, trying to tease her despite the seriousness of the situation.

Satin's study is and always has been her domain. She doesn't let anyone else inside, up to and including Miracle and Victory.

Instead of responding with words, she glares at me as she opens the door. Then she pushes me inside and turns around to find the most senior of the soldiers, who wasn't in the same car as me but clearly followed on behind.

"Wait here," she snaps, and when he looks like he's about to argue, she literally hisses at him before continuing. "If your president wants me to give her free rein in my district then you'll stand there and let me talk to my sister alone."

Then she spins on her heel and slams the door in his face.

"_Your_ district?" I ask, obediently sitting down on the seat she points at as she sweeps across the room.

"Did you see any Capitolians on your way here?" she retorts, and though she just about keeps her expression stern, I can see her struggling to stop her lips from curling up into a smile.

"No," I reply, shuffling around in an attempt to get more comfortable position. "So are you going to tell me what's happening? All I'm told is what these people think I need to know, and that really doesn't seem to be a lot. Why aren't you letting them in? I've never known you back down from a fight, not even when we were children."

"Come here," she says, reaching forwards to the computer in front of her.

She clicks on a few icons far too quickly for me to see what she's doing, and seconds later, an image appears on the screen. I shrink back when it starts moving and changing, because the place I'm seeing is so painfully familiar. It's Prisca's dungeon. The place I was held with the other Victors after the end of the Quell. And the figure being dragged into the middle of the room is me.

I look away so I don't have to watch the Peacekeepers holding me down as Prisca slowly pours the kettle of boiling water over me, but I can't close my ears to my screams of agony. I turn to face Satin instead, and her eyes don't leave the screen for a second, not even as she reaches for my good arm and squeezes hard enough to bruise as if she's trying to reassure herself that I'm here with her and not still in that place of suffering and death.

"That's why," she says when the screen fades to black as the film ends. "Someone high up in the Capitol contacted me a few hours after I saw you die in the arena and told me they had you both alive and that they'd hurt you if I didn't do what I was told. I didn't believe them and ignored the messages. Then they sent me that. And this," she adds.

She opens the desk drawer nearest to her and takes something from it. When she holds it out to me, I instinctively reach out and take it. Then my eyes widen when I see my sapphire pendant lying on the palm of my hand.

"Snow's always known that the way to people's hearts is to threaten those they love the most."

"Is that really my wicked big sister admitting she loves me?" I retort, but my voice is already cracking and seconds later I'm almost doubled over by the force of the uncontrollable sobs that rack my body.

When I eventually return to myself, the first thing I'm aware of is Satin's hand gently stroking the side of my head until I finally relax enough to lean into her as she stands beside me.

"Falco's gone, Satin," I whimper, finding that I can't hold back my emotions now I've finally let them go. "Snow's saying he's dead and Heavensbee hasn't seen or heard from him. He tried to leave then Capitol…but now he's gone. I can't bear it. I can't bear the thought of him hurting…"

She holds me for a while longer, until my fresh tears subside, but then she pushes me firmly away. When she kneels down in front of me, I try to look at the floor so I don't have to meet her eyes, but she quickly puts a hand on either side of my face and forces me to look up.

"Gloss is still alive, Cashmere," she growls. "And you don't know for sure that Falco's dead. Do you really think either of them can afford for you to fall apart? Do you think Falco would want you to be sitting here sobbing and wearing that truly hideous grey jumpsuit? No, he wouldn't. He'd want you to stand up and tell the Capitol that they can do what they like to you but you'll never surrender. And now I know you're free, I'm going to tell President Coin and Heavensbee that the invasion of the Capitol starts here. Will you fight with me when the time comes, little sister?"

She snatches the necklace out of my hand and fastens it around my neck before holding her perfectly manicured hand out to me.

The familiar weight of the sapphire pendant gives me the courage I need to reach out to her and let her pull me to my feet.

"Good," she says with a smile. "Now let's get you upstairs. You can't possibly fight the Capitol in those clothes."

* * *

"You kept stuff," I say inarticulately when Satin abandons me in the middle of Gloss' old bedroom so she can rifle through a tightly packed rail of clothes.

"Only what Miracle and Sil stole from your house," she replies, shrugging her shoulders in response to my confused expression.

"Sil?"

"I argued him out of jail during the Quell when everyone was preoccupied with the arena. He cried when they fired your cannons."

"And he and Miracle had to steal stuff from my house because…?" I ask, slightly shaky with emotion at the thought of a proud man like Sil crying for me.

"The Peacekeepers arrived to board the place up less than an hour after you fell. Miracle expected it and took what he could."

I shake my head, disgusted by the idea of Snow's minions going through my things, although I can guess what they were looking for. As if I'd have been stupid enough to leave anything that might connect me to a planned revolution in a house the Capitol gave me.

"Put this on," says my sister, holding out a black suit with silver edging. "What's wrong?" she asks when she sees my reaction.

"Felix made it for me," I explain. "He's on Snow's list as well."

"List?"

"Of what he calls traitors. Falco's on it as well. The list says they're all dead."

"They said you were dead too," she replies, extending her arm again so I can take the suit. "And I don't think you own an item of clothing that wasn't designed and made by Felix anyway. So do you want me to help you?"

I look up incredulously but instantly regret it when she turns away, getting up as if embarrassed by the level of emotion she revealed and what she took as my rejection.

"I meant because of your arm," she whispers. "You can't use your hand properly yet and the buttons are small."

"Thank you," I say, smiling when she almost shyly takes that as consent and proceeds to help me remove the jumpsuit and replace it with my own clothes.

"What are they doing in Thirteen?"

"You're asking me?" I reply, sitting down on the sofa beside her, trying not to remember the last time I was in here, which was the last night before the Quell. "I've been locked up for six weeks, remember. You're the big bad rebel."

She laughs at that but shrugs her shoulders again. "I'm isolated here. That's the problem with the way the revolution's happening. It's being run from somewhere miles away that most people think doesn't exist and the communication network's useless."

"There are the propos," I offer, thinking not for the first time of how I'll have to convince Heavensbee to put me in one in case Falco's out there somewhere, thinking I'm dead.

"Which are just that. Propaganda for the masses. None of it tells me what's really happening and if I see Katniss damn Everdeen one more time then I might just change my mind and throw my lot in with Snow."

"She's just the face. She's not the brains. Forget her."

"She killed Gloss."

"Gloss is alive, Satin. I hate Everdeen as much as you do, but hating never got anyone anywhere good. Hating Finnick Odair taught me that. Because look where it got me."

"But she _killed _Gloss. I sat where you are now and thought I watched you both die. Gloss had Everdeen's arrow in him."

"I know. Prisca Oakhurst made me watch that over and over and over again until I thought I'd go insane. But if Snow's deposed then we'll be free. If that's the potential reward then I'll make myself live with my hatred. Especially as we know what'll happen if we lose."

"Are you feeling okay, Cashmere?" she says teasingly. "Only you're starting to talk sense. I'm not used to it."

"A bit like how I feel when you're being nice then," I retort, before abruptly becoming serious once more. "I'll go back to Thirteen in the morning. If I can find anything out then I will. But I've got to get Gloss well enough to travel. And I don't care what anyone says or does to stop me, I'm going to look for Falco."

"In the Capitol?" she replies, her expression highly sceptical.

"If I have to."

* * *

**_Thanks for reading and (hopefully) reviewing :)_**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

I didn't think I'd ever be able to sleep with the combination of my nightmares and all this new information filling my mind. However there's a lot to be said about how being at home can settle you in a way nothing else can, because the next thing I know, I'm opening my eyes to see the bright District One sun streaming into the room through the gap in the curtains.

When I get up, I find another one of my outfits hanging on the wardrobe, and there's one of Satin's own overnight bags on the floor beneath it. There's a piece of paper as well, tucked inside far too messily to have been put there by my chronically neat sister. I take it out and unfold it, and the childish representation of a group of people with a small girl at its centre makes me immediately sit down on the bed again.

Victory's drawn an arrow pointing to each figure, and my breath catches when I realise each one shows a member of her family. I'm there, my mass of wavy hair yellow because that was obviously the closest colour match she could find, and Gloss is beside me.

But then my heart stops again when I see that the person on my other side is Falco. Vic obviously knows the Capitol would never allow him to truly be her family, so when I recover I wonder if my niece is simply very perceptive or if she's been asking Satin more questions.

"Cashmere, are you awake?" comes Miracle's familiar voice through the door. "Your hovercraft will be leaving soon."

"I'm up," I call back, rubbing my eyes so I don't cry before refolding the picture and pushing it safely into the bag.

* * *

A short time later, I walk into the kitchen to find my brother-in-law alone but for the three virtually ever-present District Thirteen soldiers. They're staring at each other with what seems to be uneasy respect, but they all look up when they hear me. I know immediately that my sister isn't there because the soldiers would be waiting outside if she was.

"Where are Satin and Vic?"

"You know Satin and public displays of emotion," Miracle replies, and because of the type of person he was when I first met him, his expression as he speaks of her still shocks me by seeming more loving than I ever could have imagined him being capable of. "She doesn't do goodbyes."

"She's going to fight. You know that, don't you?"

"I know. Knowing the Capitol had you and Gloss was the only thing holding her back."

"I don't want her to get hurt."

"She'll fight, Cashmere, and we both know it. Nothing anyone does or says will change that. It's who she is. But if I can keep her out of trouble then I will."

I nod seriously and then smile lightly.

"Maybe having a baby will stop her."

"And here was me thinking you knew your sister," he replies, returning my smile easily as he thinks of his unborn child. "When she had Vic she was back in the workshop the following morning. It'll be no different this time. "

"At least now you don't have to call her Cashmere," I reply, smiling slightly at the thought of the new baby, but though I intended my remark to be teasing, it comes out far too seriously for that.

"I would have done," he says softly. "I know you told me not to, but Satin wanted to."

"Miss de Montfort, we have to leave," interrupts one of the soldiers, and for once I'm almost grateful because now I don't have to think of a response to Miracle's words.

Resisting the urge to tell the soldier that I don't have to do anything just because someone from Thirteen tells me to, I nod before turning back to Miracle.

"Tell Vic I love her and that Gloss does too. And tell Satin not to do anything stupid," I say, knowing my sister will take that the way I intended, which is to tell her exactly what I told Victory.

"You should be at home with your family, Cashmere."

"Not without Gloss. You know I'd never leave him."

With that thought, I follow my escort to the back door, reaching up to close my hand around the pendant at my throat. I stare down at my still bracelet-less wrist without speaking again. I've lost one of the people I love more than anything. There's no way I'm going to lose the other.

* * *

I take one last look at the sky before the hovercraft enters the hangar back at Thirteen, trying not to think about how long it will be before I see daylight again. As long as it takes for me to help Gloss get well enough to travel home, I think, realising at the same time that it might be quicker to steal a sedative from the hospital and convince Heavensbee to fly us to District One while my brother's unconscious.

The hovercraft door clicks open and more soldiers immediately swarm over to secure it. I get up and walk forwards, solely intent on getting to Gloss, but I'm forced to stop by an officious-looking woman wearing a dark grey suit. She stares up at me, her expression a mixture of disapproval, uncertainty and something else I can't quite place. Surprise, perhaps. Shock that I've returned when I could easily have disappeared into the depths of District One and never come back.

"I'm here to escort you to Command, Miss de Montfort."

"I'm not going to Command. I'm going to see my brother. The only reason I came back," I finish, and her face tells me my guess about what she was thinking was at least partially right.

"President's orders."

"Not my president."

"The quicker you come with me, the quicker you can see your brother. I've been instructed to have you arrested if you don't comply…" she replies, letting her final sentence trail off with what I imagine would sound like menace if I'd lived a different life.

"Fine. Let's go then," I say, mostly because I've learnt enough about Thirteens to know they're so militaristic and regimented that sometimes the quickest way to get what you want is to temporarily comply.

I'm shocked when I get to Command, both at the display of technology I've only seen the match of in the Capitol and also at how President Coin herself is there waiting for me. Her expression is as stern as ever, and once again there is something about the woman that makes me want to rebel against her just to see how she'll react.

However whatever that something is, Heavensbee obviously senses what I'm thinking, because he rises to his feet and gestures to a seat at the massive glass table. I don't accept it. Who is he to think he can move me around like I'm just another piece in his game?

"Why have I been brought here? I did what you wanted. All I want is to see my brother," I say, but now I'm here, I can't help taking advantage of the opportunity to look around and find myself looking everywhere but at Coin.

There are maps all over the walls, all lit up with tiny lights. On closer inspection I realise they show the districts in more detail than I've ever seen before, which mostly seem to be in black, and the Capitol, which is bright blood red.

"What are your sister's intentions?" barks Coin, interrupting my thoughts with yet more of the District Thirteen disapproval I've already come to hate.

I scowl at her, trying to channel every bit of disdain I'm capable of into that one expression. Then I turn to Heavensbee.

"You already know. She's seen I'm free, of the Capitol at least," I add dryly, unable to resist a sly glance at Thirteen's president. "Satin will fight. And allow you to use District One as a military base when you invade, which we were assuming is what you really want."

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" answers Coin, neither confirming or denying what we both know is true. "You can go."

"Is the rebel army going to invade now?" I ask, still looking at the map and ignoring her. "Because the black on the maps indicates rebel control, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does," answers Heavensbee, inclining his head slightly.

"Is it wise to involve the Capitol's pets in discussion of the war?" interrupts one of Coin's assistants before he can continue.

I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but someone else sitting at the table beats me to it.

"I think Cashmere's earned the right to an opinion on this after all she's endured," says the middle-aged man with tightly curled black hair that's greying slightly at his temples. "And she's survived life as a Victor with her sanity intact for as long as she has so she can't be a dead loss."

I smile in gratitude and he smiles back. Something about the look in his eyes makes me want to ask him what he knows about Victors, sanity and survival, but I force myself to remain silent.

"I think Dalton has a point," says Heavensbee to the room in general. "And Cashmere's no traitor. She's been one of us for years. She used to carry messages for the one you call 'The Capitolian'."

"And look how far that got."

"That wasn't Achillea's fault," I shout, and I'm surprised by the vehemence in my voice. I barely knew the woman who began the revolution we're in the middle of, but she had my loyalty, perhaps more than even I knew myself. "She was betrayed. But certainly not by me or anyone I knew."

"We know that, Cashmere," says the former Head Gamemaker soothingly. "In answer to your question, we won't move on the Capitol until all of the districts are under our control. We are yet to establish our position in District Two."

"That's the last place they'll surrender. And it's called the Mountain Fortress for a reason."

"Said like someone who knows a lot about the disposition and strategy of the enemy," interjects Coin's assistant, the woman who brought me here under the threat of arrest earlier. "Too much for a district-born, I'd say."

"I might be 'district-born' as you curiously put it considering we're in _District _Thirteen, but I won the Hunger Games. Which means I've been on Victory Tours. And I ask a lot of questions."

"I can imagine," says Coin contemptuously.

I ignore her and look closely at the map of District Two that's on the map behind the man called Dalton. It's the only place other than the big city itself that's more red than black.

When I tune back into the room's main conversation, they're talking about Enobaria again, and how no trace of her was ever found when they rescued the rest of us from the Vault. Some are saying she's dead, others that she's been Snow's agent all along. Part of me wants to point out that the Enobaria I barely knew was loyal only to herself and the memory of her long-dead family, but the rest of me decides it's best to remain silent. Especially when the debate seems to be moving back to potential ways to bring down the Mountain Fortress they strangely seem to call 'The Nut' and they've temporarily forgotten my existence.

However when one of the Capitol rebels Heavensbee _did _manage to bring with him mentions internal spies, I can't stop myself from speaking. I turn to the Capitolian leader of the rebellion, hoping Coin won't try to have me thrown out.

"Does that mean Ursala?" I ask, surprised by the force of longing for my friend that swells up inside me.

"I'm not sure," he replies, and for the first time ever, I actually believe he's being entirely truthful. "She's been gradually dropping off the radar since the Quell and hasn't been heard from at all for over a week."

"Can you blame her?" says a woman I don't recognise from further down the table. "Panem's a tough place to be a Hunger Games Victor these days."

Spoken like someone who at least partly understands. So not District Thirteen then. But I still can't place her face even though she seems familiar.

"I tried to get her out two days ago. But she didn't respond to my message in any way and didn't arrive at the meeting point."

My initial response is to assume the worst, to think of her dead or worse, but then I realise I can't do that. Because if I do then it won't be much of a stretch to imagine the same of Falco. And if I do that then I won't be able to carry on. So instead I focus on another option.

"It's no surprise she doesn't know who to trust," I say, pointedly glancing at Coin and her people. "It's amazing how hostile allies can appear."

"She had her chance," retorts the president angrily, speaking like this definitely isn't the first time Ursala's been a topic of discussion in here. "She's turned traitor for all we know, and now she'll be treated accordingly unless she proves otherwise."

"'Sala would never fight for Snow," I spit, abruptly aware of how I'm the only person standing up and that the woman reflected back at me through the glass on the wall doesn't look entirely sane. Then I realise I don't care.

"Cashmere-"

"You've no idea, any of you," I shout, and for a short time at least, they look too shocked to move to stop me. "_You _because you've been locked away in your not-so-cosy underground nightmare plotting world domination while the rest of Panem suffered and died," I continue, pointing at Coin before turning to Heavensbee and carrying on once more. "And _you _because you spent most of your adult life dreaming up new and ever more exciting ways to destroy people like Ursala and me. You'll never understand. You could hear twenty-thousand propos like the one Odair did, and you'll still never get it. If you could then you'd never question Ursala Barbieri's loyalty."

"Ursala Barbieri has family," says Heavensbee, his calm the total opposite of my tormented rage. "And that means her loyalty can be made to change. Now I suggest you return to your brother before you say something further that you'll regret."

I know a dismissal when I hear one, and that wasn't exactly subtle, and as I look around at the expressions of the people sitting at the table, I know I have no choice but to comply. Before Coin either throws me out or I find myself in yet another prison cell.

* * *

I leave the room and head down the corridor, barely holding myself together. But that only lasts until I see Finnick Odair, walking towards me hand-in-hand with Annie Cresta.

How come he gets to keep the one he loves? What has he done to make him deserving when I'm not? Why him and not me? Why is she here with him when Falco isn't here with me? Why?

I flee as quickly as I can, managing to ignore the pain in my body because it can't possibly compete with the pain in my mind. I don't know if I'm crying for Gloss because it seems the Capitol's finally broken him, for Falco because he's lost and I can't reach him, for Ursala because Alma Coin's got every intention of serving her a death sentence as certain as that of a District Six tribute in the Hunger Games, or simply just for myself because I don't see how I can carry on.

I want my family back, I want to go home, but above all, I just want to see daylight. I can't think properly in this cage. I can't focus when all I can see is dark.

* * *

I go up every staircase I come to, barging past people heedless of their rank or condition, thinking only of escape. However eventually I get to a door that's guarded by people I can't ignore. The group of soldiers all have guns, but when they tell me I can go no further, my first instinct is still to argue and fight.

"Nobody goes out at this time, Cashmere," interrupts Soldier Johnson, appearing from nowhere to intervene before I hurt someone or someone hurts me.

For some reason, all that really registers is that he remembered to call me by my first name after I told him I hated 'Miss de Montfort' when we first met. And that just tips me over the edge, making me cry all over again. I turn away and run before anyone can stop me.

When I find an unlocked door, I stumble through it straight away and without giving a thought to what might be on the other side. I rub my eyes to clear them and immediately see that for the first time ever in District Thirteen, there's nothing artificial about the light. On the highest point of one wall, there's a genuine window, and I'm so shocked I notice that before I notice how I'm not alone.

"Who are you?" asks the woman who sits on the room's only chair.

She's probably a few years older than me, fair-skinned with dark hair, but not in the same harshly beautiful way as Enobaria. This woman is softer looking in some way, despite how her dark eyes tell me she hasn't been untouched by this war or rebellion or whatever they're calling it these days.

"You mean you don't know?" I reply meaning to mock myself rather than her even though I'm not sure she'll take it that way.

She looks closer, seeing past the travel-worn clothes, tears and what I imagine is an expression still bordering on hysterical.

"Cashmere de Montfort," she says, her eyes widening slightly.

"Thanks for reminding me," I retort sarcastically, trying to decide whether I value solitude more than daylight in whatever place I choose to stay in until I'm emotionally under control enough to return to Gloss.

"I don't know what you've got to be upset about," remarks the woman dismissively. "You're alive, aren't you? That's more than Cecelia and poor old Woof can say."

"Who are you to judge me like you know the first thing about my life?" I snap, anger rapidly replacing my tearful depression.

"Sorry," she replies. "But it's true."

"Who are you? What's your name? If you're going to judge me so harshly then I deserve that much in return."

"My name's Poplin. Poplin Bradley."

"District Eight," I reply, not needing her to confirm that because she couldn't be from anywhere else with a name like Poplin. "Well, Poplin, my brother's in a hospital room he's too frightened to leave, my lover's missing and presumed dead, and one of the very few people I can genuinely call my friend is waiting to see if her enemies or her allies kill her first. That's not to mention the six weeks I spent as a guest of President Snow and Prisca Oakhurst in the Vault. Do you want me to continue? Because trust me when I say I can."

She doesn't speak for so long I begin to think she isn't going to. But then she raises her arms and I see her burnt and disfigured hands for the first time.

"The Capitol made you suffer, Cashmere, I can't deny that. But you're not the only one. They did this to me in one of their factories, in an accident that wasn't an accident over little more than thoughts and a few spoken words. They made me useless to them and cast me out to starve. I've been living on my baby sister's charity ever since. But they only win if you let them. If I don't think of myself as powerless then what in Panem gives you the right to?"

Fortunately I'm spared having to think of a response to that when another woman appears in the doorway, her uniform a darker grey than Poplin's.

"'Lin, let's go. Luce is looking for you. And you're needed back at the armoury."

The new arrival shares Poplin's colouring, though her hair is shorter and looks like she's cut it herself with the dagger that's clipped to her belt. She looks beaten up but determined, and though her expression shows she recognises me, she stands her ground in a way that makes me suspect she'd stare President Snow out just the same.

"Okay, okay, Commander Paylor. I'm coming, Almighty Leader, I'm coming," replies Poplin, speaking to her commander with a teasing disrespect no District Thirteen soldier would ever even dream of as my eyes widen slightly at the sight of the woman Soldier Johnson spoke of with such respect.

The women quickly leave me behind, exiting the room side-by-side like equals, but I find I can't get Poplin Bradley's words out of my head. When I really think about it, I know it's because she's right.

The Capitol only wins if I let it, and if there's even a small chance I can change something to make it right then I have to try, starting with Ursala. And that means Heavensbee. I reckon he owes me for transporting all those messages over the years.

* * *

"What do you mean 'Command is a closed meeting room'?" I snap, resisting the urge to say 'do you know who I am?' because I'm coming to realise that means nothing good here. "Go in there and ask Heavensbee if he'll see me."

The guards exchange glances, but the one on my right does as I suggested and disappears into the room. He reappears a few minutes later.

"They'll see you now."

"This had better be good," says Coin, looking peeved that I've reappeared so soon after she dismissed me.

"Send Ursala another message," I say, looking at Heavensbee and speaking only to him. "Tell her that District One says chin up, back straight, walk tall and stop being so damn stupid. Then she'll turn up."

"And we should go to all that trouble because?" retorts one of Coin's lackeys petulantly.

"Panem, you sound like my niece," I reply scathingly. "My six year old niece. You should go to all that trouble because I've heard you all saying your maps of the Mountain Fortress are outdated and inadequate. Tell 'Sala to bring a friend and you'll have the information you need. At the very least you'll be better off than you are now."

"A friend?" asks Coin, not as hostile as before because no matter what she thinks of me, she's smart enough to recognise what might benefit her.

"The wife of the man who saved my life ten years ago in the arena. Astraea Rossetti's been high up in the non-Capitolian ranks of the Mountain Fortress for years, and she did it all for vengeance, so she could really hurt the government when the time was right and she passed all the information she had to the rebellion."

"But why?"

"I told you: for love and vengeance. For Corvinus."

"It's a massive risk," says one of the Capitol rebels I barely recognise.

"Is it?" retorts Heavensbee. "If we can get prisoners out of the Vault then we can get two women out of a district we half control."

"Three," I say, stopping him before he can carry on. "Ursala won't leave her daughter."

"For once you might actually be being of some use," says President Coin. "But we've got no room for sentimentality. A child could ruin the whole mission just by being there."

"She's not a child, she's a woman. And she's just like her mother. She won't hinder the mission."

"Very well, Cashmere. I'll send the message. But it's the last time," says Heavensbee. "If she doesn't respond this time then she's on her own."

"She'll respond," I reply, nodding to the room at large before quickly leaving.

I've done what I can for Ursala. Now Gloss is my priority, because when he's well enough, we can both go home. And everyone knows home is a lot closer to the Capitol than District Thirteen is.

* * *

The guards on the door of Gloss' room say very little, but their body language speaks a thousand words, telling me he's no better than when I left. But I try not to pay attention to it, because doing something, going to see Satin and persuading Heavensbee to send Ursala another message, has made me feel a bit more like myself again. Falco's absence is a permanently gaping hole that never leaves, but at least now I'm occupied enough to attempt to push the past few months a bit closer to the back of my mind. For Gloss, because there's no one else to help him but me.

"Gloss, it's me," I call, letting him hear my voice as I push past the guards without permission and open the door. "I'm back."

This time, instead of cowering in a corner, he rushes forwards and hugs me so tightly I can barely breathe.

"I'm trying, Cash, but sometimes I can't fight it. Is this how you felt after your first arena? Trapped and suffocating, like you can't even take a breath."

"It's how I still feel sometimes," I reply. "You'll get through this though, Gloss. You will. Then we can go home."

"Satin?"

"Kicked the Peacekeepers out and took over the district."

"That sounds like Satin."

"She said she's sure she'll see you soon. And Victory did this," I say, taking our niece's picture out of my pocket.

"Can I keep it here? To make me stronger," he says softly, so quiet I barely hear him.

I nod and let him take it from my hand.

"I've got to go and see Heavensbee again. Then I'll be back. We can try to go for a walk in the morning."

He nods but raises his eyebrows questioningly. "Heavensbee?"

"I tried to convince him to get Ursala out of Two. I need to see if the message he sent her was enough. Oh, and I'm going to be in a propo."

"You're what?"

"You heard me. With the Girl Who Should Be Set Alight in Two, our former Head Gamemaker is struggling for show material," I reply dryly, but I can see he's not convinced even though he says nothing when I reach for the door. "I'll see you in a minute."

Then I walk away before I change my mind.

The door clicks open again before I'm out of earshot, but no matter how much I wish he would, Gloss doesn't follow me out of the room and into the corridor.

* * *

"So this is where you edit the propos," I say, trying to be casual as I slide into the small, technology-filled room that's only just big enough to also contain Heavensbee and the strangely familiar woman from Command who suggested Panem is a tough place to be a Victor earlier on.

"Yes," Heavensbee replies, sounding almost enthusiastic about this particular contribution to the rebellion. "We've been filming the Mockingjays in Two in the hope that some of the people there will join the fight."

"I hate to break it to you, but I don't think your favourite Mockingjay is all that popular over there," I retort, scowling at the image of Katniss on the screen in front of me as I see and hear nothing but her arrow flying over my head to hit Gloss. "You'd be better off using some of your resources to find Enobaria instead."

"You're wasting your time, Cashmere. I've told him over and over again but he doesn't listen."

I narrow my eyes at the woman who sits beside the former Head Gamemaker, wishing I could remember where I'd seen her before. Despite her lack of access to makeup and so-called fine fashion, she's obviously Capitolian, and her comment was spoken with a casual, teasing tone that tells me she's known Heavensbee for a lot longer than a few weeks, but she's young, of my generation rather than his.

When I look at her, all I can think about is Falco, of how she escaped from the big city and he apparently did not.

"You got out of the Capitol," I say flatly, taking the two small steps I need to bring me right in front of her. "How? Who were you with? Who else did you see when you fled?"

"I… I-"

"Answer me!" I yell, reaching down to grasp the front of her jumpsuit. "Did you see Falco?"

"Who?" she gasps, and after a few seconds, I truly focus on her face and see the panic in her eyes.

"Falco Hazelwell. Did you see him when you left the Capitol?"

The woman shakes her head frantically and then visibly sighs with relief when I release her and take half a pace back. I half smile in apology, remembering how she stuck up for me in Command, and she smiles back.

"Last I heard, he left the Control Room when he thought he saw you die," she says, all her words coming out in a breathless rush. "Then he was seen in the centre of the city with the Black Widows later on. And everyone knows they conspired against the president. They're on wanted lists and everything. The Peacekeepers have been told they'll get a reward just for being able to prove they've seen them-"

"Get to the point," interrupts Heavensbee impatiently.

"Sorry," continues the woman. "After that, I don't know. About Falco, I mean. I'm sorry."

"Black Widows?" I ask, confused and seizing on one of the few things that might have a simple explanation.

"That's what the seedier gossip columns and papers call Narissa and Vesper," answers Heavensbee in explanation. "I'm sure you can work out why."

"They didn't eat Gloss," I reply dryly before turning back to his companion. "But who-"

"I'm Ismene," she says eventually, smiling at the frustration that must show in my expression. "You last saw me wearing a fluorescent orange miniskirt on the night of Katniss and Peeta's Victory Ceremony."

Now she's said it, I remember that night like it was yesterday. I remember the gold outfit Felix dressed me in, the feeling of dread at the thought of how Falco probably wouldn't be able to save me from the fate of every pretty Victor at such short notice, the brightly dressed young woman and her friends who looked down at me like I was nothing.

"From fluorescent orange to District Thirteen grey," I say, suddenly not sure what to make of her.

"A lot's happened since then," she replies, and her shoulders seem to sink as she looks down at the floor. "A lot's changed, including me. You knew Phoenix and Phaedra, didn't you?"

I nod. "Sort of. I knew their mother better."

"Phaedra's dead," says Ismene flatly. "She died right in front of me with a mass of Peacekeeper bullets in her chest. And the ironic thing was that she was only there to try and stop me from leaving with the rebels. She was on their side all along and they killed her."

"Phaedra was a traitor?" I reply incredulously. "I never liked her, but a traitor? To the revolution her own mother worked for? I didn't think she'd sink that low."

"Phoebe knew in the end. She worked it out. Phaedra started to ask too many questions and she knew something was wrong. Call it mother's intuition. But all I really know is that I only got out of the city because the girl I thought was my friend accidentally took the bullets meant for me."

"And where's Phoebe now?"

"I've no idea," answers Heavensbee, looking anxiously at the screen like he wants my interruption to end so he can keep working. "What are you doing here, Cashmere? Can we help you with something? Because if not then we've got a deadline to make."

"Actually, I was hoping to help you," I reply. "I'll be in one of your propos."

"Why?" he asks, barely looking up from the computer.

"Because I know what Snow and his people are capable of," I try, but that sounds feeble even to my own ears. There's hardly a person in Panem who can't say the same. "Because they controlled me totally and I want them to see I'm still here, fighting for their enemies."

He looks up at that, scanning me appraisingly, his expression unusually unreadable.

"He's dead, Cashmere. You know that, don't you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"All the signs we've seen and sources we have indicate that Falco died trying to leave the Capitol. You want to be in a propo because you think he'll see you and realise you're alive. But he's gone. I'm so sorry, for the cause not just for you, but he's not coming back."

"I don't believe you," I tell him firmly. "I don't. Falco's alive out there somewhere. I know he is. And he'll come back to me whether I do a propo or not. I promise you."

"That's good," he replies eventually. "Because there might come a time when publicly revealing your…continued existence will really achieve something. Don't take this the wrong way, but I'd rather keep you a secret until then."

"A secret? Every person in Thirteen knows I didn't die in the Quell."

"And how often do the people of District Thirteen communicate with the outside world?"

"What do you really want from me?"

"Honestly?" he replies, continuing when I nod firmly. "I'm not quite sure yet."

* * *

_**Thank you for reading :) I don't think I'll have the next one ready for next week, so Merry Christmas to you all. Don't forget to say hi before you go :)**_


	5. Chapter 5

**_So... It's been months and months and I'm guessing nobody will remember/read this, but I finally had some free time and did another chapter. If you are still there then I'd love to hear from you :)_**

Chapter Five

"Did you sleep?" I ask Gloss a couple of long days after Heavensbee refused to let me be in one of his propos, forcing myself to sound bright and cheerful and to not notice how he still jumps at any sudden noise, even one as familiar as my voice.

"You know the answer to that, Cash," he answers, his expression fixed and strangely determined as he pulls at an ever-expanding hole in the thin grey blanket that just about covers his bed.

"I meant after," I reply, knowing he's thinking about how we both woke in the middle of the night, him with his nightmare and me in response to his deafening screams.

He nods distractedly, takes a visibly deep breath and walks across the room to stand by my side.

"What are you doing today?"

"Just the usual," I say. "Shopping trip, out for lunch-"

"Seriously," he interrupts, rolling his eyes at my response. "I want to try and come with you."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure I'm not going to stay in this room forever. Coin's lackeys are already prowling around."

"What do you mean?"

"When you were out yesterday, a couple of her minions were here. In other words, I think Coin thinks I'm a spy," he says, laughing humourlessly. "Either that or she wishes I was so she has an excuse to lock me up and throw away the key."

"Then you're definitely coming with me. I'm going to see Heavensbee to ask about Ursala, but we can get him to make the Thirteens back off at the same time."

He smiles grimly and reaches for the door handle, but as soon as it swings open, a group of soldiers stride past us. The noise they make sends him reeling back across the room.

"It's OK, little brother," I whisper, fighting back the tears suddenly threatening to fall. "We'll try again tomorrow."

"No, Cash," he replies, his voice firmer than I expected. "I'm all that's keeping us here, keeping _you_ here, and I know you want out. So I _will_ leave this room. Today. Now."

I don't know what to say to that so I say nothing. I hold out my hand instead and he takes it, allowing me to lead him back to the door. In a flash of inspiration, I reach for Victory's picture, wincing when I close my still-painful injured and scarred hand around it and pass it to Gloss.

"She wants her uncle back. Come on. Let's go."

He takes it, holding it tightly enough to crinkle the paper and turn his knuckles white as we step out into the corridor.

* * *

"Where are we going?" asks Gloss, his already painfully strong grip on my hand getting steadily tighter with every step we take.

"I told you before. We're going to see Heavensbee. Do you want to go back?"

"No," he replies instantly. "But why would he be down here? It looks like the District Thirteen equivalent of the staff washroom at the workshop back home. Why would a man like Heavensbee be here?"

"Oh, little brother," I say with a smile I can't entirely suppress no matter how hard I try. "We've got to get you out of that room more often. Then you'd realise this is what Thirteen looks like. Everywhere looks the same and this is just about as good as it gets."

"Really?" he asks, speaking with mock incredulity in a very pronounced Capitolian accent. "You mean we're reduced to living in a place like this?"

I laugh and pull him along quicker. I don't think I've ever been so happy to hear that teasing note in his voice or to hear him laugh with me.

We're still laughing as we approach the propo editing room I found the former Head Gamemaker in yesterday, and I can't help noticing the disapproving glances we get from the grey-jumpsuited District Thirteens we pass. I ignore then, deciding if my brother and I can laugh for even a short time after what we've been through then they've got no excuse for being so miserable and humourless.

* * *

Just as I'm about to knock, the door flies open and I hear Ismene call out as she turns to leave whoever's still inside.

"Go for Mags," she shouts. "Get Finnick to narrate!"

Then she turns and walks straight into Gloss.

"I believe we've met," says my brother quietly.

To his credit, he doesn't look overly panicked, on the surface at least. I can see how tense he really is, but I doubt the Capitolian woman will be able to.

"I…" stammers Ismene in response, and it's one of the first times I've seen one of the big city's elite truly lost for words. Then I remember why.

"Let me help you recall," Gloss continues, his voice dangerously calm. "Your friend back in the Capitol purchased me from President Snow like I was some kind of exotic pet. I do believe you asked her to share."

"I…I don't know what to say. I'm here working on the propos for Plutarch now. And I am truly sorry for the way you were treated in the Capitol."

"Is Heavensbee in there?" I ask, interrupting before Gloss can reply.

"There's another broadcast coming up," she says, nodding anxiously before scurrying off down the corridor.

"I'm trying, Cash," begins Gloss, speaking first in a way that makes me think he knows what I'm going to say. "I'm just used to most Capitolians being the enemy. And she _was_ with Phaedra that night."

"From what I've seen, most of them are just like you and me in a way. They're born, they grow up, they live their lives and then they die. They didn't create the Capitol-district divide, they didn't start the Hunger Games and don't even know we're for sale if they have what Snow's asking. And they're not picking up guns to fight the rebels now. They just had the good fortune of being born in the right place."

"If you weren't my sister and I didn't love you then I'd hate you, you know that, don't you? Can't you just hate them for what they've done to you like any normal person would?"

"Don't listen to him, Cashmere. I think Panem would be a better place if more people thought like that," says Heavensbee, taking up the whole doorway as he steps in front of us.

"It doesn't mean I wouldn't kill Snow and that I wouldn't do whatever it takes to bring him down," I say, not wanting anyone to think I'm in the slightest bit sympathetic to those who've ruined my life, especially him.

"I don't doubt it," he replies, before doing a comically visible double-take at Gloss. "You're making excellent progress, I see."

"Might have something to do with Coin's minions harassing me because they think I'm Snow's spy."

"The people here are…keeping a close eye on all of the Victors."

"And yet they sent Everdeen to District Two."

"She's playing the role she needs to play," he says, sounding somewhat defensive.

"Well, since she's responsible for this," replies Gloss, raising his hand to cover the scar where his eye used to be. "I'm not in a rush to see her again, but it does make me question what right District Thirteen has to forbid us to leave."

"Forbid you to leave?"

"I told one of my interrogators I want to go back to One and was informed that it wouldn't be permitted."

"Really? Now-"

"Really," says Gloss, cutting him off before he can finish.

"Did you hear about the message you sent to Two?" I ask suddenly, trying to defuse a situation I sense could get unpleasant for everyone. Heavensbee's more of an ally to us than Coin, not that Gloss seems to see that at the moment. "Did Ursala get to the hovercraft?"

"Yes, she did. It appears your message worked. She and her daughter are on their way here as we speak. Along with her friend, Astraea Rossetti."

"If anyone can tell you about the Mountain Fortress then it's Astraea."

"I hope you're right, Cashmere, because we're running out of ideas about how to crack this particular nut."

"And what will you do when you have? Invade the Capitol?"

"Invade?" he replies, laughing deeply in a way that reminds me of far too many nightmarish evenings in Snow's mansion. "I think 'liberate' would be more fitting."

"Same difference," says Gloss. "Either way, it will mean there will be a lot of rebel hovercrafts taking soldiers to the Capitol via District One, won't it?"

"Of course."

"We want to leave District Thirteen," I say, silently thanking my brother for seizing upon the chance to legitimately get out of here. "While we appreciate the care we've been given, we don't belong here. Besides, we might be of more use elsewhere."

"You argue your case like you've spent many years with Falco Hazelwell, Cashmere. You should have been a politician."

"He's the politician," I reply, fighting back a familiar pang of grief as I very deliberately refuse to use the past tense. "Are you going to permit us to leave or are we going to have to find our own way out?"

He stares at me long and hard and I stare right back.

"Prisca Oakhurst, and by extension President Snow, wanted you for something," he says. "They went to a massive amount of trouble to keep you alive. I'll be honest and say I'm reluctant to lose sight of you until I know exactly what that reason is."

"Or was," I counter. "How do you know it wasn't just a means of attempting to control Satin?"

Heavensbee shakes his head. "No. There are thousands of methods they could have used to do that. There's something else, something I'm missing."

"But surely we'll be surrounded by half the rebel army if we go home," says Gloss, quickly revealing to me just how much he wants to get out of here. "We're less at risk there. And we've told everyone who's asked us over and over again that we don't know anything else. If we did then we'd say. Do you seriously think we'd hold back anything that could be used against Snow?"

The former Head Gamemaker looks thoughtful again. "Very well. You can return to District One in one of the military craft if and when we move on the Capitol."

"Thank you," I reply, wondering how long I'll have to wait.

And how long I've got to teach myself some kind of accuracy with a gun.

* * *

The following afternoon, I stand staring at my reflection in the frameless mirror above the washstand. I pull my hair back from my face and try to imagine what I'd look like without it, if a military beret replaced my blonde curls and my pale skin was covered with camouflage paint.

Then I let it fall back around my shoulders. Who am I trying to fool? I can't think about that if I can't even fire a gun. What am I going to do anyway? Walk through the mountain tunnel to the Capitol and roam the streets until I find a trace of Falco or what happened to him? That's not going to happen, and deep inside I know that. But it doesn't mean I can bear to stay here doing nothing, waiting for President Coin's next move.

* * *

Once I leave Gloss in our compartment, initially telling him I need to go for a walk and then telling him I haven't given up on the propo idea when he doesn't believe me as I knew he wouldn't, I set off in search of the armoury. I hate lying to him, but I have no choice. I can't exactly tell him what I'm really doing. If I do then he'll know straight away that I'm not exactly doing it for entertainment. He'll know I have a bigger plan, and it will be too much for him.

I didn't think it would be easy to get District Thirteen to give me a gun, but in the end it proves impossible, even for me, to persuade the stern-faced and humourless men and women who guard the armoury. I try to reason with them, I try bribery, and in the end I border on threatening violence to the point where I almost get arrested. I can't help thinking Ursala would be as proud of me as she would be amused, but though the thought brings a smile to my face, it doesn't get me what I want.

Temporarily defeated, I leave the armoury and try to think of another plan, wondering what Coin would do if I actually tried to openly join the Mockingjays. I don't hear the person who follows me down the corridor until she's almost right behind me, and when I spin around, I find myself facing someone I didn't expect.

"We've got to stop meeting like this, Poplin," I say, steadily holding the gaze of the woman from District Eight who was so openly disapproving when I met her last time.

"What are you doing here?" she asks with the bluntness I'm beginning to learn is typical of her district.

"Trying not to be powerless," I retort, throwing her own words back at her and hoping she doesn't realise from that that what she said has been echoing in my mind ever since.

"Then I'm assuming this is what you want," she says, holding out one of the District Thirteen standard issue hand guns.

"And why are you giving this to me?" I reply, taking it from her before she can change her mind. "Surely it must be breaking at least a hundred of this place's endless regulations.

She shrugs her shoulders. "I've been thinking about what you said before. And listening to what you said in there," she adds, nodding back in the direction of the armoury. "You might not be as special and unique as you think you are, but you've earned the right to fight and I don't think Coin's paranoia should stop you. But if anyone asks then you didn't get that gun from me."

"You mean this old thing?" I say with a dry smile. "I found it in one of the training rooms. I really would have thought soldiers of District Thirteen would be more careful about where they leave weapons. Anyone could have picked it up…"

"Hearing that makes me wonder how much of what you said in your television interviews was all part of the performance," replies the woman from District Eight as she looks me up and down appraisingly, shaking her head slightly.

"Whatever amount of it you think was performance, double it," I tell her, and then I turn and walk quickly away before anyone can see us talking.

The gun feels alien in my hand and I hope it doesn't show.

* * *

By the time I get to the firing range, there's only a short time left before the official end of the District Thirteen day, where everyone is directed back to their compartments for what is known as 'reflection'. I carry on anyway. Time to reflect is the last thing I need right now, and there will never be a better time for me to be here as virtually all of the soldiers and army recruits have gone.

There are a couple of small groups, but they're gathered together and pay me little attention. I keep walking, hoping to find a quiet corner where nobody will observe what will surely be my epic failure to hit even the biggest of targets. Which is, of course, assuming I figure out how to fire the gun in the first place.

When I reach what I think is the end of the range, I find it carries on a short way around the corner, and it's there I find a single shooter. She has her back to me, and is so deep in concentration that she doesn't realise I'm there.

I take another step forward, curious to know why she's alone despite my earlier wish for solitude. This time I'm so close that she hears my movement instantly and spins around. I'm shocked to see she's little more than a child, and she's not District Thirteen, One, Two or any other background I can immediately identify. If anything she looks vaguely Capitolian, but there's something else there too, some heritage that makes her features not quite as sharp as those I associate with the big city.

"Who are you?" she asks, speaking with a very pronounced District Eight accent that only adds to my confusion. "You're not District Thirteen."

"No, I'm not," I reply cautiously. "Perhaps you could put the gun down."

"Don't worry, I won't shoot you. I know how to handle a gun. My big sister taught me."

Lucky you, I think to myself as I take a step closer to her. She's tall, almost as tall as me despite her obvious youth, and I can't see anything of the textile district in her other than her dark eyes.

"Who's your sister?"

"Zib," she replies. "Zibeline Pershing. I'm Adelaide, but everyone calls me Adie."

"I'm Cashmere."

"Cashmere de Montfort?" she asks, stepping closer, and to my relief, lowering the gun. "The Victor? Really? I thought you'd be taller and…stronger looking."

"Sorry," I reply, laughing lightly. "I didn't mean to disappoint you."

"I'd have been in the reaping for the first time last Reaping Day if it hadn't been a Quell year. What was the Hunger Games like?"

Definitely District Eight in some way then, despite her appearance. She makes Poplin Bradley look subtle.

I stare back at the child-woman before me for a minute, wondering exactly how to answer a question like that. And she's only twelve. How can she only be twelve and look so much older? How can she be the same age as the little girl from District Eleven who died in the Seventy-fourth Games?

"Every bit as horrible as every district person's worst nightmare," I reply finally, still shivering at the memory of being in the arena.

"So you didn't really want to be a tribute? Zib says Careers deserve whatever they get because it's what they chose for themselves."

"Nobody could ever deserve becoming a Victor. Not even someone like me," I add dryly, deliberately not entirely answering her question.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Practicing. The same as you," I say, wondering what kind of woman arms a twelve-year-old with a gun and teaches her how to shoot. Then I think of my father placing a sword in the hand of my seven-year-old self and realise I'm in no position to judge.

"Go on then."

Adie points at the targets and stands back. I step away, ashamed and more than a little bit embarrassed.

"I can't," I confess reluctantly. "I've never been taught how."

"But you fought in the Games," she replies, not even trying to hide her surprise.

"With a sword and a dagger. There are no guns in the arena, as I'm sure you know if you think about it."

"Oh," she says thoughtfully. "Do you want me to show you?"

And that is how I come to be standing on the District Thirteen shooting range being taught how to fire a gun by a twelve-year-old girl.

* * *

The shooting range in the morning is very different to the shooting range at night. That's the first thing I notice when I push through the airlock door out of the tunnel and into the open air. Adie warned me that it would be, that it would be impossible to practice without drawing attention to myself, but I wanted to see for myself anyway.

The door clicks shut with a finality that makes me jump and suddenly there are soldiers everywhere. So much for the concern I know some of the people in Command have that they sent too many to Two. From the looks of this place, the rebel army has plenty to spare.

"What are you doing up here, Cashmere?" asks Soldier Johnson before he turns back to the group with him and barks viciously at them to keep going.

"Training," I reply, raising the gun slightly and nodding towards the targets that are covered with photographs of Snow and his government and then wondering how I'd never noticed them before. "And hoping I won't get arrested for it. Who got the photos? They're a nice touch. Nothing like a bit of motivation to get the new recruits to shoot straight, I guess."

"One of Paylor's Boys got them from somewhere. Command wanted them removed until someone pointed out that they're, as you said, motivational."

"Paylor's Boys?" I ask, intrigued by yet another reference to the seemingly omnipresent District Eight.

"The former labourers from the main factory centre in Eight. The men who used to load the Capitol trains with all the cloth. Flax Paylor is their Katniss Everdeen. They say she set them free."

"Lucky them," I reply eventually, thinking of Gloss and everything he's been through, of Satin, miles away in One, and of Falco, who might be…no, I can't think about that. I mustn't.

Johnson raises his eyebrows questioningly.

"It must be nice," I say. "To feel free, I mean. I'm not sure I ever have."

"Life's what you make it, Cashmere," he tells me, reaching out to tap the barrel of my gun. "Wise people say revenge isn't a solution, and they're probably right. But take it from an old man who knows, it's a pretty good place to start."

* * *

When I hear about the arrival of the hovercraft from Two, I go to the corridor that leads to Command first, only to be told that President Coin and Heavensbee have already sent Astraea to Special Defence, whatever that means. When I ask about Ursala and Velia, the guard says he doesn't know.

I walk the nightmarish corridors for what feels like ages before it occurs to me to go to the main entrance, where a stereotypical District Thirteen citizen sits behind a desk, allocating people compartments. Cursing my own stupidity, I head in that direction at a run, which seems to startle a lot of the people I pass. I ignore them completely.

"Where have you put Ursala and Velia Barbieri and Astraea Rossetti?" I ask, slightly breathless.

The man looks questioningly back at me, appearing slightly peeved I'd interrupted him as he sorted the mass of documents that surround him.

"The spies from Two," I clarify, recalling how they're being referred to by the general District Thirteen population.

"Why didn't you say so? Compartment Seventy. All of them," he adds disapprovingly. "They wouldn't be separated."

I stare back at him and try not to smile. Something about the man's tone of voice tells me that the grey-uniformed accommodation supervisors were stupid enough to attempt to separate my friend from her daughter and Astraea.

I only wish I'd been here to see it.

* * *

It takes a while to find Compartment Seventy. Everywhere here looks the same and the underground corridors are a maze just like There. My breathing returns to normal eventually, but as I'm about to knock on the door, I find myself hesitating. I don't know how Ursala will have felt about being flown out of her home district with no hope of returning in the foreseeable future. I don't have many true friends, and I don't want to lose the woman from District Two's trust.

But then I have to remember that she's here, and that must be at least partly due to my words I told Heavensbee to include in his message. That's got to count for something, and with that thought, I knock the door.

Despite what the guard told me about Astraea, I step inside to find all three of them, sitting and lying around the room in a way that for some reason reminds me sharply of the photo of a pack of wolves I saw in one of the old books in Falco's library. They share the same colouring as each other, the same body language, the same aura of danger even when they appear relaxed.

They all look up at me at the same time. Ursala says nothing out loud, but instead she simply nods in the direction of the empty end of the bed she and her daughter occupy. She smiles and tightens her grip on Velia's arm. I haven't seen her since she was a young girl, but now she's older she looks even more like her mother than she did before, and I recognise her instantly.

"Well, well," says Astraea, her District Two accent significantly more pronounced than Ursala's. "If it isn't Living Dead Girl herself. Are you immortal or something? Because last time I checked, the whole of Panem saw you die."

There's challenge in her eyes and an edge to her voice that reminds me I'm the sole survivor of the Games that claimed her husband's life. Like I could ever forget.

"I'm as mortal as you are, Astraea," I reply evenly. "But you know how Snow likes to get what he wants. At whatever price."

I raise my hand, reaching for the waistband of my skirt. When I pull my shirt free, I lift the fabric up so she can see the bandage that still covers most of my torso."

"They saved you after Mason's axe? You weren't dead even though they fired your cannon?"

I nod in confirmation. "Yes, but Prisca Oakhurst has more uses for boiling water than you can imagine."

"Sit down, District One," says Ursala, interrupting her friend to speak for the first time and abruptly cut off any argument or debate about my presence here. "Before you fall down. You don't have to explain yourself to me."

* * *

"Seriously?" I ask disbelievingly.

Ursala and I are alone now, after Astraea was taken back to Special Defence for yet more discussion about the Mountain Fortress and Velia left to look for her when she still hadn't returned several hours later.

"Seriously," replies my friend flatly as she stares unblinkingly back at me.

"You're going training and you want me to come with you? Me? With you?"

"I watched you win the Hunger Games, District One, so don't try the defenceless little woman act with me because you know I won't buy it. I'm going to learn how to shoot, not take on the entire Capitolian army on my own with nothing but a hand gun. I think you'll manage."

"But Ursala, I don't think I can-"

"Not taking no for an answer, District One," she sings back. "This war will be fought with guns and fancy technology, not knives and swords. If you imagine yourself sneaking out of here dressed as a Mockingjay so you can look for your Mr Hazelwell then you're going to need more than some scissors and a barrel of hair dye."

"I've no idea what you're talking about," I reply as my mind reels at how obvious my thoughts must have been and how quickly she guessed my plan.

"It's okay, Cashmere. Nobody else knows. I only guessed because I know what you're like."

"I fought with swords nearly ten years ago. I'm more likely to put a bullet in myself than hit my target."

"Which is why we're going training. These Thirteens must be good for something and I'm assuming it must be war because it's certainly not hospitality."

It's fine for you, _District Two_. You've probably got a fighting, pain-immunity, lethal accuracy gene or something."

"Cashmere?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up and move."

"Make me."

"Don't tempt me."

"But I'm supposed to be washing bed sheets or whatever the latest inane task is today. Coin will probably have me executed if I'm not where I'm meant to be."

She starts to reply, but any words she had are quickly lost in her laughter, and once she starts I can't stop myself from joining in.

"What's so funny?" asks Velia as she bounds towards us, her dark wavy hair streaming out behind her.

"Nothing," replies Ursala, and I don't miss the way she raises her eyebrows questioningly at Astraea as she moves to stand behind Velia with a scowl on her scarred face. "We were just trying to decide what the chances are of Cashmere getting executed for not being where her arm tattoo says she has to be."

"Less chance than if I didn't have a tattoo in the first place, I think," I say defiantly, rolling my sleeve up so they can see my skin, which is pale and clear but for a few stubborn bruises that still aren't fading.

"The tattoos are usually on the other arm," challenges Astraea as she moves past Velia.

"Probably wouldn't be a good idea," I say, pulling up my other sleeve to reveal the mass of cuts and scars that are only just starting to heal.

"The bitch will pay, Cashmere," she replies fiercely, any issues she might have with me abruptly forgotten at the sight of such a vivid reminder of the government's cruelty. She stares back at me, slowly turning the wedding ring she's never stopped wearing. "They all will. The people of the districts will have their vengeance."

I nod, unable to find words but hoping desperately that she's right.

"Can we go now?" asks Velia.

"We're all going?" I say quickly, not entirely happy with the idea of putting my now very limited fighting skills up against two District Two Training Centre graduates and a Hunger Games Victor's daughter.

"Why?" retorts Ursala almost playfully. "Worried you can't keep up, District One?"

* * *

"You went training with District Two?" asks Gloss when I return to our compartment several hours later, exhausted and dirty but somehow more at peace with myself than I've been since before the Quarter Quell. "In full view of the Thirteens? Weren't they worried you were about to stage an uprising?" he adds, not entirely jokingly.

"There were only four of us, Gloss," I reply. "And that's being optimistic. I don't think I really count."

"Training in what though? Where did you get the gun from? And more to the point, why have you got a gun in the first place?"

"Only a bit of hand-to-hand," I say, trying to make light of it and stop him getting even more suspicious. "We couldn't find wooden swords so we made do with these wooden post things. I was too embarrassed to attempt the gun."

"I didn't even know you could fire a gun, Cash. And there's no such thing as a bit of hand-to-hand with District Two. I've seen Ursala Barbieri fight, remember? She does either standing still or all out war, with no half measures."

I laugh, thinking he has a point and that I'm sure I'll have the aches and bruises to prove it tomorrow, but he refuses to be deflected.

"Why are you fighting again? What's going on?"

I sigh and cross the room to sit on the bed, knowing there's no way to further avoid talking to him about this.

"I don't believe Snow's list of dead traitors, Gloss," I tell him when I can finally find what might be the right words. "I don't believe Falco died trying to flee the Capitol."

"So you're going to do what? Walk into the middle of a battlefield and look for him? Have you lost your mind?"

"I didn't say I was going to do anything of the sort. But I am going back to One with the army, and you know me, little brother, so you know I've got too much pride to travel as an unarmed civilian."

"I _do _know you, Cash. So I know there's more to it than that. You can't seriously expect me to believe you're going to go back home and stay put if you think Falco's alive out there."

"Probably not," I reply, as unable to avoid being anything other than honest with him as ever. "But that's as far as I've got with the plan so far. Honestly."

"Then I'm coming with you."

"Home? Yes, of course you are. I'd never leave you here. So you'd better get more used to leaving this room. No excuses."

He nods and moves to sit on the bed beside me, reaching up to put a hand on either side of my face and holding me still so I have to look at him.

"You'd tell me if there was something else, wouldn't you?"

"You and our family and Falco, Gloss," I reply. "There is nothing else. But I have to know. I have to know what happened after we, you know…died. And I won't believe he's dead until I see him with my own eyes."

"But you've seen all the reports from the Capitol. You know it would have been virtually impossible for him to have escaped detection for this long. If he's not dead and the list is just a front then Snow will know. Falco and Narissa will be top of his most wanted list and…"

"I know all that," I snap, but then I smile sadly at him to soften the harshness of my voice. "It doesn't change anything. I'll never rest if I don't know the truth."

* * *

"What in Panem are you doing down here at this time of night? You know what the Thirteens are like about who comes out here."

I sigh deeply, deciding that someone somewhere really doesn't want me to have any time alone. It's the middle of the night and people still seem to find me.

"I could ask you the same question," I reply, lowering the gun as I turn to face Astraea.

"You could," she says. "But you could answer me instead."

I smile wryly at her sharp retort and shrug my shoulders. "Practicing. When there's nobody around to see how many times I miss the target."

She reaches towards me for the gun, and before I know it, there's a hole right in the centre of the target I'd been aiming at, right between Prisca's eyes.

"Show off," I hiss, but with no real venom.

"I've _had _practice," she replies softly. "It's ironic really, that the Capitolians gave me the skills I'll need to kill them."

"I know about the Hunger Games stuff, but guns? How? When?"

"At the Mountain Fortress. For years they thought I was just another of their brainwashed automatons. Half the Peacekeepers come from Two, you know that. They never suspected me. They never knew how much I hated them."

"Because of Corvinus? Still?" I ask, but I know how stupid the words are before they've totally left my mouth and I immediately wish I could take them back.

"Forever," she replies. "He wasn't the sort of person you forget and move on from."

I nod in agreement and apology then take the gun back. This time when I aim and fire, the bullet at least pierces the target.

"You can't leave District Thirteen with the Mockingjays, Cashmere. You know that. And it's no more possible to travel freely around Panem now than it was before the uprising."

"I don't know why Ursala thinks I'm going to," I reply, hearing the slight edge to my voice and just about regretting it.

"But she does. And I do, too. Because you love that Capitolian as much as I loved my husband."

"How could you possibly know that? The last time we met was nearly ten years ago. And his name's Falco."

She doesn't respond to what I said and carries on as if she hadn't been interrupted.

"If you go out there then you really will die this time."

"Why do you care? I don't exactly get the impression you like having me around."

"I told you when I first met you that I don't blame you for Corvinus' death and I meant it. But that doesn't mean I don't see your first arena every time I look at you," she says seriously, but then her tone abruptly becomes much lighter. "Besides, you should know by now that the children of District Two have their humanity removed at birth, so you can't tell me you're waiting for hugs and flowers."

"Very funny," I reply flatly. "I mean it though. Why do you care if I live or die?"

"Have you been watching the television broadcasts?"

"Of course," I answer impatiently.

"Then you'll know Panem's Hunger Games Victor population is decreasing every day," she says, and I nod in confirmation. "Well, on the night Heavensbee sent your message, the Peacekeepers came for Ursala. The only reason she wasn't home is because she'd snuck out to tell me we were getting out of Two. She'd be dead if you hadn't said what you did and made us decide who to trust, so I'll always care."

"I didn't know. She never said."

"Since when did 'Sala discuss trivial and mundane things like people trying to kill her?"

"Fair enough," I reply, laughing briefly before returning to being deadly serious. "I can't live with not knowing, Astraea. Wouldn't you feel the same if it was Corvinus not Falco?"

"You know I would. But don't you think you're better off being Living Dead Girl than just Dead Girl?"

I shrug my shoulders and raise the gun again, aiming carefully at the image of President Snow on the nearest target.

"I meant what I said. I have to know."

The bang of the gun echoes all around us and the bullet smashes into the president's throat.

"And even if I never find Falco, I have to be there when Snow's made to pay for everything he's done."


End file.
